


Enlea’Enasal: The Herald of Andraste

by Lalaen



Series: Enlea’Enasal [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon Compliant, Culture Shock, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Gethrael Lavellan has no idea what he’s doing, Haven (Dragon Age), Hinterlands (Dragon Age), M/M, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamorous Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Sex Positive, Slow Burn, Tent Sex, Val Royeaux (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27552310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalaen/pseuds/Lalaen
Summary: Gethrael has known for a long time that he was never going to be the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, but he never expected to wake up to hundreds of humans praising him as the Herald of Andraste.Fortunately for him, he’s used to not knowing things - this is going to be a long journey full of things that he isn’t going to know.
Relationships: The Iron Bull/Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull/Male Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Series: Enlea’Enasal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013964
Comments: 70
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of a massive project that I _very much_ hope that someone other than me will enjoy!
> 
> This will be broken up into various chapter fics, but the endgame ship is The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus/Male Lavellan. It may take us a while to get there, but it will be worth it. 
> 
> Thank you to itzteegan and BECandCall for preread/beta, and of course the Dragon Age Fanfiction Discord server for being around to motivate me and bounce ideas off of. 
> 
> Huge thanks to the Project Elvhen Lexicon created/compiled by FenxShiral!
> 
> Aiming for weekly update.

_I wonder if they realize I’m Dalish,_ was the only thing that Gethrael Lavellan found himself able to think. 

“Herald of Andraste herself...”

“... save us all...”

“... sent by the Maker!”

He’d seen large gatherings before; he’d attended Arlathven three times in his life. Somehow, this was very different. He was the only one here of The People, for a start, and they were all looking at him. Some were praying, some even teary-eyed.

No one would ever accuse him of shyness, or self-consciousness. Quite the opposite. He was considered bold and outgoing among his clan, and no doubt had been called shameless by every member at least once. Now, as he walked through the gathered crowd and they parted before him like driven halla, an unfamiliar numbness crept through him. Suddenly very aware of his heartbeat, of the tightness of his throat, Gethrael went towards the chantry and tried not to look at the people staring at him and whispering Andrastian devotions. When he did that, he felt a little like he was dying. 

The last thing he remembered was feeling like he was dying. That green haze all around, the massive demon making the ground shake; that terrible pulsing pain in his hand. The pain had consumed everything, each beat of it lapping over him in sickening waves. It was a vibration, and a burning, and a sharpness, and a _pulling_. It was overwhelming, unbearable. He remembered that, and then the… breaking. A sound that didn’t seem loud yet made his eardrums ache. Then, nothing. 

This felt different. It felt like all of his insides were shrivelling up; and surely not working any more. Like his heart must’ve stopped altogether, but it was also beating very loudly. 

He did not look at the people. Tried to look over them instead; to his destination. Why was the Chantry an eternity away? Gethrael would’ve never in his life believed that he would be eager to enter one, but… here he was. At least it would get him away from all of this. 

What else could he do, where else could he go? He’d seen only one other elf, not including that girl who’d just run from the cabin, clearly scared of him. Solas? That sounded right. He’d held Gethrael’s hand up to that first rift, he’d known just what to do. He was very knowledgeable, like a Keeper. Not Dalish, but an elf, and that was more than enough at the moment. He must be able to help, and he would, surely. 

“Maker be with you,” one of the sisters said as he passed, clasping her hands together. Another fell to her knees, muttering something about blessings. 

Gethrael found himself saying a quiet, “ir abelas,” as he stepped around them to open the chantry door. The moment that he was inside, leaning against the wood as though the crowd might try to burst in behind him; he felt foolish. Why would they know any Elvhen? Why would anyone here?

The chantry was warm, quiet, and filled with glowing candles. It seemed so... close, so stifling for a place of worship. For one wild moment he had the overwhelming urge to go back outside, but he thought of the people, and did not.

Candles filled the small alcoves along the walls of the Chantry; and their flickering light gave a nice effect, he supposed. Whyever would their Maker be able to see them in a dark box? It just didn’t make sense. At least there were no more sisters here to kneel by his feet. They all seemed to be outside. 

_Herald of Andraste_. 

It was almost enough to make him laugh. He wanted to laugh, thinking about it; but all he found inside of himself was a rising horror. The humans couldn’t believe that, could they? Gethrael might be foolish, might’ve been chided for it again and again by Keeper Istimaethoriel, but even he knew that humans laying blame at the feet of elves and killing them for it was an old story. It’d happened many times before, countless times - that was far more likely than… 

Than saying one of the People spoke for their prophet. 

Cassandra didn’t appear to be in this hall, but there was a door at the end of it, and Gethrael couldn’t see a more obvious place to look. Cassandra was the sort of person that couldn’t be ignored, surely one couldn’t miss her in any room. As much as she’d threatened to kill him, she’d also been very upfront about the fact, and that was something he’d appreciated very much. She’d explained things to him, and he was sure that many in her position would not. This made her worthy of some trust, Geth thought, though he could only imagine how many of his clan would call him te’olathe’len for that. 

As he approached the door, his soft boots somehow still echoing on the stone floor, he wondered if he was supposed to knock. How did one tell either way, which doors should be knocked on?

“- for you to decide! You serve the Chantry!” That sounded like the man who’d wanted to execute him so badly. Gethrael thought he might as well just go in. 

Cassandra stood with her hands planted on the table, glaring down the Chancellor. Everyone in the room turned to stare at Gethrael as he entered. 

“Guards!” The Chancellor shouted, “put him in chains and have him prepared for trial!” Ah, yes; he could all but hear Hunter Shahari and Hunter Elcen saying this was what he should expect from the _wicked shemlen_.

“I think not,” Cassandra said stiffly. At least she was still on his side, though he wasn’t sure what that meant. He hadn’t the slightest idea who was in charge here, though he was getting the feeling they didn’t know either. 

“You... still think I would do this?” Gethrael blinked at them all, nonplussed. “I promise you, I couldn’t have even if I wanted. I’m ladarelan’elgar - ah, a spirit healer,” he added quickly. 

“So was the man who destroyed Kirkwall’s Chantry!” the Chancellor said, literally pointing an accusatory finger at Gethrael. 

“I didn’t even know that?”

“The Dalish aren’t exactly known for terrorism,” Cassandra’s friend, the red headed woman, stepped out of the shadowy corner where she stood. 

“I believe he is innocent,” Cassandra’s voice was practically a snarl. He tried to give her a small smile, because if nothing else, he was thankful someone believed him. No matter how this turned out. She was not looking at him. 

“That’s not for you to decide!”

Wordlessly, Cassandra turned and strode over to a small table; where she picked up a truly enormous book. Gethrael already knew she was stronger than she looked from when she was hauling him around, but the ease with which she tossed the book down in front of the Chancellor was still impressive. 

“You know what this is? A writ from the Divine, giving us authority to act.” She stared him down, as though daring him to speak. “As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Gethrael didn’t know what, exactly, was going on here, but this sounded dangerously like things the Keeper told tales of. “The last Exalted March killed my people,” he said, looking between the two women for an explanation. They must understand that he could not support that, not allow it. 

Cassandra gave him a hard look. “We do not intend a March, but you must realize there is already a war. We do not yet know if it is Holy. Like it or not, you are involved - it has left its mark on you.” She gestured at his hand, and pulled it closer to himself almost reflexively. He wished Solas was here, or even that kind dwarf. What had his name been? His crossbow was called Bianca. 

Even in these circumstances, Gethrael realized how absurd it was to remember the crossbow’s name and not the dwarf’s. 

“Am I still your prisoner?” He wasn’t sure if the answer made a difference. Had they said before that the thing on his hand was killing him? He was suddenly quite sure they had. His stomach felt funny. 

“No. You may go if you wish,” Cassandra’s friend said from her corner. The Chancellor sputtered and tried to speak, but Cassandra silenced him with a glare. 

“-But we can only protect you if you stay,” she said, “And news of what happened at the Conclave is spreading.”

Gethrael didn’t need to be Shahari and Elcen to imagine what that would mean. He’d be hunted down as surely as though by Anduril herself… as would, no doubt, many other Dalish by angry, frantic humans. 

“Then I suppose I stay,” Gethrael said with a smile, trying to lighten the situation. It didn’t seem to work. 

…

Though Gethrael saw no sense in leaving Haven - and this ‘Inquisition’ - he’d also never been so far from The People in his life. Though others of his clan feared or disdained humans, he did not. Twice, he’d even kissed human men from towns they passed, and once it’d gone a little further than that. There were reasons he’d been sent to the Conclave, and his attitude towards _shemlen_ was chief among them, the shining star of any argument most anyone in the clan had against him becoming Keeper. 

Still, there was something that felt a little uneasy about being the only elf around, even when it seemed as though they’d decided not to execute him. It did not help how many whispered Andrastian blessings as he passed. The moment that he was able to leave the suffocating Chantry, Gethrael started to look for Solas. 

He did not know his way around Haven, or even if Solas had stayed, so he wandered aimlessly and watched some of the preparations for the refugees being made. At least he was outside. He had the distinct feeling that he’d be sent back to the confines of that cabin to sleep, so he wanted to spend as much time not under a roof as possible. It was a little cold, but it seemed like most of Ferelden was. Still, he was happy to see Solas seated near a brazier, which would be much more comfortable if he wasn’t going to be moving around. 

“Aneth ara,” Geth said pleasantly, sitting down beside him without even the thought to ask if he could. 

“Did you need me for something?”

“I was hoping to learn,” Gethrael used his response for his own Keeper almost automatically. She was often busy and annoyed when he disturbed her, so it was an attitude he took in stride. “You seem to have a great deal of knowledge about the Beyond, and Elvhen magic.”

Solas gave him a very long look, as though hoping he’d give up and go away. Gethrael did not break his gaze. He had a will of steel when he wanted it. “Of what use would this knowledge be to you?”

“I am a mage, and a Keeper is supposed to pass on what they know of our culture.”

“I would not be compared to one of your Keepers,” Solas said stiffly, and the disgust in his voice was audible. 

Gethrael cocked his head, a little taken aback. “It’s meant as a compliment - a great honour. I thought you’d realize.”

Solas gave him another long, searching look. “How old are you?”

“I was born in nine-nine Dragon.”

The mage gave a heavy sigh, as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. “Yet more proof that the Dalish are as children, acting out stories misheard and repeated incorrectly thousands of times.” The barely restrained anger in his voice was astonishing, nothing Geth would ever think to expect of another elf. It was beyond insulting, really, to hear something like that from someone who wore no sign of devotion to the Creators. 

“I suppose you know better,” Gethrael said, not about to let something like that lie. 

“While they pass on stories, mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things others have not.”

“How can you judge us when you won’t even share this knowledge?” Gethrael said sharply, “at least we _try_ to preserve our culture.” For a very long moment, they simply looked at each other, and he refused to back down. “Ar dirthara. Ir isal’ghilan,” he added, more quietly. Not only was this about the principal, but not having so much as the respect of the only other elf here was not acceptable. 

Solas’ expression tightened slightly. “Your pronunciation is... embarrassing, but perhaps you are right. What do you wish to know?”

“I would know about this Mark,” Gethrael said, pleased with himself and happy to ignore any more of Solas’ insults. “It is on my body, after all.” He flexed his left hand, watching the faint green glow from inside his palm; underneath the shiny scar tissue that extended over the heel of his hand and down his wrist in angry tendrils. 

“There isn’t a great deal more to say,” Solas said, “the Breach is allowing spirits to enter our world physically from the Fade, and your Mark seems to exert some control over it. That means it was created intentionally.”

“What I really don’t understand,” Gethrael said, “is that I’ve seen spirits before; and I’ve dreamed in the Beyo- the Fade, before. Why is it only Demons that come through the rifts?”

“Spirits wish to join the living, and a demon is that wish gone wrong,” Solas said, and Gethrael was left to wonder if that was supposed to answer his question. If the elf didn’t want to be compared to a Keeper, maybe he shouldn’t be so obtuse with his answers. 

“If they remained spirits,” Geth said, considering his next question carefully, “could we live with them in peace?”

“Not in the world we know today,” Solas was almost unreadable - at least to Gethrael - but he seemed strangely sad. “It is impossible, with the veil as an active barrier between us. But the question is a good one, and it matters that you thought to ask.”

Was that approval, or something like it? Gethrael couldn’t stop a grin. “So with no barrier-“

Solas actually interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. Though the elf still wasn’t exactly animated, he’d definitely _intensified_. “My studies indicate that calling it a barrier is a vast oversimplification. Imagine if spirits entered freely, if the fade was not a place one went, but a state of nature; like the wind.”

“I’m... not really sure I can imagine that.” He didn’t exactly know what to make of Solas’ abrupt shift in mood either. He was used to people wanting him to leave them alone, and he knew kindness and friendliness well, too. As passionate as Solas was about the subject, Gethrael felt as though he could just as well be talking about it to no one at all. 

“Imagine if spirits were not a rarity,” Solas continued, “but part of our world like a fast-flowing river. Yes, it can drown careless children; but it can also carry a merchant’s goods, or grind a miller’s flour.” The elf turned his gaze on Gethrael again, making startling eye contact. “ _That_ is what the world could be; if the veil were not present. For better or for worse,” he added the last as though he knew he should, though it was clear as anything from his tone that he thought a world without a Veil would be incredible beyond words. 

Gethrael held his gaze for a long, long moment, realizing that he was, in fact, going to have to say something. “Well, aren’t we coming awfully close to that now?” He said jovially. “It doesn’t seem very good. I keep getting told to fix it.”

Solas’ brow furrowed, and he snapped back to irate in an instant. “Teldirthalelan. No, it would be nothing like this.”

Though Gethrael still thought it sounded the same, he elected to keep his mouth shut this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar dirthara. Ir isal’ghilan - I want to learn. You must guide me.   
> Teldirthalelan - idiot/one who won’t learn


	2. Chapter 2

So far, the Hinterlands was rather nice, Gethrael thought. They’d been travelling a little more than five days, and though it was a touch cold - especially at night - he found the scenery pleasant. 

“You know, you seem happy,” Varric said, walking along beside Gethrael, “and since we’re trudging through the middle of nowhere and eating mostly hard tack, most people would call that pretty weird.”

“You’ve only seen me surrounded by demons and interrogated by Cassandra,” the elf gave him a sheepish grin. “Obviously I’d be happy in comparison.” As much as he was joking about it, the fact was that Varric was right. The pit in his stomach was all but gone, and he could actually sleep soundly; when he’d lain restless and awake in the cabin at Haven. 

“I suppose that’s true. Still, can’t shake the impression you prefer this to Haven,” the dwarf teased. 

“I’ve always lived like this,” Gethrael said, “The People don’t really sleep in buildings. I never had, as far as I can remember.” The staff he’d been given was driving him crazy, it was very heavy compared to anything he’d used, mostly metal; and walking with it made the detailing dig into his back. He unslung it to give his shoulder a rest, which Cassandra immediately noticed. 

“Keep your weapon away unless we are threatened,” she said stiffly. 

Gethrael was about to respond that it was just making him sore when Solas spoke, “Our new friend is a primal mage, Seeker. He can no doubt easily cast without that staff.” He paused and gave her a pointed look, “as can most talented mages.” 

“Come on, Cassandra,” Gethrael said playfully, “I’m not about to kill the one person who doesn’t want to execute me.”

“Hey, what am I?” Varric elbowed him. “Druffalo dung?”

Cassandra grunted. 

“...she certainly thinks so,” the elf said under his breath, and he and Varric traded bemused glances. 

“Well I think-“

Gethrael cut the dwarf off with with a sharp gasp when pain suddenly lanced up from his palm clear through to his shoulder. The heavy staff tumbled from his grasp, sickly green light wreathing his hand. It crackled like the storm, but _different_ \- the storm never made his bones feel like they were knives, or dragged down on a hook in his gut. 

“Are you alright?” Cassandra demanded immediately, her fierce gaze going rapidly between his glowing mark and his face. 

“We must be approaching one of the rifts,” Solas said before he could answer. 

“Wonderful,” Gethrael said, a little breathless. “I guess I shouldn’t hold my staff in my left hand.”

“And _I_ guess that means demons,” Varric pulled his crossbow from his back. 

“Can you still fight,” the Seeker snapped. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Geth picked up his staff with his right hand and went to move forwards, but she actually bunted him back with the flat of her shield. 

“You will stay behind me.”

Close to the rift, the mark ached like a seized muscle; like there was a line of tension between it and the pulsating tear in the veil. Gethrael had been in much more pain and far more confused the first time, so he hadn’t had the chance to notice it, but now it seemed almost impossible to ignore. 

Without so much as thinking, he waved a spirit barrier around himself and his companions - and was momentarily nonplussed by a double-pulse of blue light. 

“You fool!” Solas called, “focus on the rift!”

Gethrael just blinked at him for a split second, then realized that the other mage had cast the same spell at the same time. Instead of listening to Solas - he couldn’t close the rift until the demons were gone, as far as he knew - he reached deep inside himself and grabbed the eagerly awaiting storm in a tight fist. It leapt from him in a living arc, making the air sizzle metallic, and he let it jump from wraith to wraith. It was rare he’d gotten to let loose like that, and there was a pleasant tingle in his stomach when he was able to let the spell end itself instead of fighting to crush it down. That felt _good_. 

He watched one of Varric’s crossbow bolts pass through the last of the wraiths as it froze and faded; then the indescribable sickly song of the rift became a calm shimmer. Gethrael started to lift his hand, and heard Solas’s sharp, “No!” Only a split second before something erupted beneath his feet and knocked him on his ass. 

Gethrael was more winded than hurt, though Cassandra hurried to his side anyways. He watched demons materialize yet again and barely had a moment to yell, “behind you!” 

Solas had already frozen the demon of wrath in place, and Cassandra spun on her heel and unceremoniously smashed it with her sword. “Dead!” She shouted, then charged towards the other as it advanced on Varric. Gethrael wove a shield around him before even standing up, only to see another blue flash. 

“Venavis!” Solas’ frustration was evident. 

Determined to do something even halfway useful, Geth got to his feet and thrust his palm at the rift. 

The pain was enough, but the effort of holding the position was incredible. It was as though the rift drew him in and pushed him away in equal measure - to break the connection would feel like the bones of his arm were being forced out of his palm, but to keep it felt like they were being shattered to powder. He had to grip his elbow with his other hand. 

There was a _bursting_ , enough to make him stagger backwards, and rift was again, calm. The demon of wrath and the single remaining wraith were still. 

“That is exactly what you should be doing,” Solas said archly, as Cassandra clobbered the demon. “Is that understood?” 

Instead of answering him, Gethrael turned back to the rift and raised his hand again. Again there was the terrible vibration, the pain, the connection he couldn’t hold and couldn’t break. The sound of the rift became an unearthly howl. Then it folded in on itself, leaving him aching and gasping for breath. Cassandra immediately went to examine the spot, kicking at the small pile of sludge it left behind. Geth clutched his hand to his chest, trying to stop it shaking. Once he could breathe evenly and present a strong front, he turned to Solas. 

“I’ve been a spirit healer for most of my life,” Gethrael said. His voice was calm; even pleasant, but he didn’t look away from Solas. “I won’t stand for you shaming me.” He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t cowed, either. He made no excuses about how rarely he’d been in genuine combat, or how he’d never fought alongside another mage. He simply stood his ground. 

Solas gave him one of those long, appraising looks of his. “Very well,” he said finally.

…

“Maybe I don’t understand the politics,” Gethrael said, looking between Varric and Cassandra, “but two of us are clearly mages, and I didn’t think elves _or_ dwarves could be templars. Why do these apostates keep attacking?”

The Seeker gave another of those grunts of hers. “Mad with power.”

Gethrael did not think that explained it at all, and stared at Varric; hoping to get something better. The dwarf only shrugged, with an expression that said pretty clearly he didn’t know either. Geth turned all the way around to face Solas. “That can’t be.”

“I assume they are simply frightened,” Solas said, as though he was explaining something to a child. “Both you and myself have called out to them, and they attack without heeding us. There is little else we can do.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Gethrael said. With the way they were acting about this, surely he was missing something. “Look - I know my people are known for being isolated, and not tolerating outsiders. There are clans that I believe would attack humans on sight. _Humans_. No Dalish clan would attack others of The People.” He glanced around at them to see if they understood. Solas and Cassandra looked as though they were waiting for him to finish, and Varric’s mouth was twisted in concern. “If your mages are in such danger, that’s all the more reason not to kill each other.”

“Hey,” Varric said, with a tired sigh. “Back in Kirkwall, mages did some pretty messed up stuff. A lot of that didn’t make much sense either. That kind of thing happens when you back people into a corner,” he gave Cassandra an extremely pointed look, but she just scoffed at him. 

“What are these Circles like, if this seems reasonable to you?” Gethrael asked incredulously. 

“Let’s go on a bit of a walk,” Varric said kindly, moving past Gethrael and turning back to beckon to him. “Just a minute, Seeker. I’ll handle it.”

They walked a little ways away, to a stream that tumbled over some larger rocks; making something of a small waterfall. Despite the fact that it was a bright, sunny day, there was a shockingly cool breeze rustling the leaves, and Gethrael knew he’d be cold if he was still for too long. 

“How’re you holding up?” Varric asked, giving him an intent look. “This ‘Herald of Andraste’ thing? Dalish don’t usually believe in Andraste, do they?”

“No,” Gethrael said, crossing his legs and sitting down on the forest floor, “we don’t.” It felt good to be here, surrounded by plantlife; nothing between him and the earth. He could see in his mind’s eye the roots of the trees entwining beneath him, feel the sun beating down on him. He was surrounded by the glory of the Creators here; settling something inside him that’d been twisted in knots since he’d woken up in Haven. 

Though he’d been excited to leave Clan Lavellan; to see new things and meet new people, part of him desperately craved to be sitting in front of the Keeper, vwaiting for her to get over her annoyance at him so he could listen to her stories. 

“All this is pretty overwhelming for you, isn’t it?” Varric said, and he sounded so understanding. 

“No one’s ever expected so much of me in my entire life,” he said sheepishly. It was true - he’d known for more than a decade now that he’d never be Keeper, and that was fine with him. Unless someone was actually injured or sick, his responsibilities were fairly minimal. Of course there were no idle hands in a Dalish camp, but generally speaking he would be playing a minor role in cooking, cleaning, tending to the halla. Mundane tasks with few mistakes to be made. 

“Well, that could be said of most people,” Varric gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “The lucky ones, anyways. But, hey. I wanted to tell you that you’re doing pretty alright. Especially for an elf with no clue what’s going on here.” He chuckled. “No offence.”

“Oh, none taken,” Gethrael grinned at him. “I really don’t have a clue what’s going on. It seems like half of this mess wasn’t even _related_ to the conclave.”

“It’s a mess alright.” Varric rested his elbows on his knees. “And I know those two are pretty... unforgiving. The Seeker, and Chuckles. But you’ve got one friend here, okay? Go ahead and ask me if you’ve got questions. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Gethrael said, still smiling. “You’re a good man.”

“Well, some would argue that,” Varric said, getting to his feet. “Lots, even. Come on, Marigold. We’re supposed to carve our way through to Redcliffe by tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Geth gave a short little laugh. “Marigold?”

Varric shrugged. “I’ve got kind of a flower thing going with elves. You see, first I thought ‘Sunflower’, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue so well.”

The four of them continued on into the late afternoon. The road was littered with overturned and abandoned carts, broken crates and pillaged supplies. Sometimes they passed bodies, carelessly tossed to the side of the path or crumpled across it. 

“I think this one’s dead, Cassandra,” Gethrael said bemusedly, watching her crouch to examine the body of a Templar. 

“I know,” she replied, tone flat. “One of these men maybe be carrying orders, or other information.”

“And here I thought no one’s in charge,” the elf watched her methodically check through the dead man’s armour. She grunted when she produced a folded slip of parchment. 

“Someone is giving these men orders,” she said, “and I intend to find out who.”

“You know it’s probably the General,” Varric said, watching her stand and unfold the parchment. 

“Yes. But Cullen is unlikely to believe this without proof,” Cassandra muttered. Her gaze slowly traced the lines of text. “This note speaks of a Templar encampment by a broken bridge. Perhaps we will find more information there.”

“I do not doubt that clearing out such a camp would make the Crossroads far safer,” Solas commented. “We have already seen how likely the Templars are to attack the refugees.”

Gethrael had absolutely no meaningful input to this conversation, and assumed the others would let him know if it affected their plans. While he waited, he poked his way through the weeds at the edge of the path. This area was much richer in Elfroot than the Free Marches, and it was such an incredibly useful herb that he found it hard to believe one could have too much of it. 

A few feet into the bushes lay the body of a mage, the ground around her stained a reddish-brown from the wound cleaved deeply into her shoulder. Like the templar, she’d been dead a little while - though the body hadn’t truly started to stink yet. That much couldn’t be said for all the bodies they’d come across. 

Others of Clan Lavellan might actually be pleased to see all these humans killing each other. Gethrael could certainly name a few hunters that would have that opinion. He personally thought it was a bit of a shame, especially since the Breach was surely a much bigger problem than any of them. 

The fallen mage’s staff caught his eye, laying in the grass a few feet from her. It was a gnarled branch, blackened in places; with a simple leather-wrapped grip. So much like his old one. He couldn’t resist picking it up, and once it was in his hand, he had to see what it felt like. The moment he opened a channel, he felt the welcoming crackle of the storm. He actually grinned. 

“Lavellan!” Cassandra snapped. It was as though she thought he might’ve run away - where she expected he’d go was an absolute mystery to him. 

“Right here!” Geth called back, picking his way around the brush so she could see him. “I was looking for elfroot,” he said, in response to the accusatory glare she gave him. 

“That doesn’t look like elfroot,” Varric teased. 

“Looking for’ and ‘found’ aren’t the same, you know.” Gethrael joked back, unstrapping the heavy metal staff. 

“Is that one not serviceable,” Cassandra muttered, looking like she wanted to find something to disapprove of. 

“This was made for a man about a foot taller than I am - besides, my People don’t even use metal _swords_.” 

“You just lift that off a dead mage, Marigold?”

“She isn’t using it!” Gethrael laughed at Varric’s good-natured prodding. 

“Your lovely disposition gets weirdly sinister when you’re running around killing people, you know.”

“I didn’t realize you wanted me to be miserable about it, I’ll have to work on that,” Geth slung the new (to him) staff over his shoulder. The way it felt against his back was an immediate relief. 

Within the hour they were within view of Redcliffe, the sun not yet ready to set but soon considering it. From this distance, the town seemed like others that Clan Lavellan had passed and traded with; and Gethrael found something about that reassuring. It was almost more normal than he’d expected, considering the slaughter in the surrounding hills. 

“Are there refugees here, too?” Gethrael asked. It was a general question, but Cassandra was standing next to him and it was she that he ended up looking at. 

“Some, yes.”

Alright, it didn’t seem she was going to elaborate more. Geth wondered if he was expected to do all the talking once they got in, because he couldn’t imagine that Cassandra was doing it - or that she’d let Varric. 

Would anyone in Redcliffe care to listen to a Dalish elf, ‘Herald of Andraste’ or no? The title was only making Gethrael feel more strangely queasy whenever he thought about it. _Andraste_. That Chantry Mother’s words were already sticking in his mind like pine tar. She didn’t hesitate to speak to him Iike he believed in the Maker even as she watched him heal with Sylaise’s gifts. It was nothing short of astonishing to him, that they could only sit there chanting their Chant and administering some herbs to relieve pain while he saved lives, yet they were right and he was wrong. 

The streets were a little more hectic than they seemed from afar, but still nothing compared to the Crossroads. Here, no one lay dying and screaming. That must mean they had a proper healer, Gethrael thought. Though, Redcliffe was also much further from the fighting, much too far for those who were terribly wounded to travel. 

“I am going to secure what supplies I can for the refugees,” Cassandra said, tone sharp as ever. 

“And let me guess - we’ll only get in your way.” Varric said wryly. “Alright, maybe we’ll go chat with some of these good people.”

Though Solas didn’t even bother to give an opinion, Gethrael was already looking around for someone he could ask where the healer was. There were plenty of people milling around, but in the absence of any other elves, he settled on a woman who appeared to be some type of town crier or storyteller. As he approached, he heard Varric start to say something along the lines of, “maybe not - oh, no.”

“Ane- hello,” Gethrael corrected himself. “Where is the-“

“The young ladies in Redcliffe speak of a spirit in the lake that grants wishes for love,” the woman interrupted him, and he was so completely taken aback that he just stared at her as she continued to speak. “So they bring it crystal grace and ask for its blessing. What they don’t know is, it is a spirit of _valor_ , and prefers blood lotus.”

“I… alright,” he said, still squinting at her in bafflement. That couldn’t possibly be normal here, right? Some human custom he hadn’t yet heard about? “Can you tell me where the healer…”

“Come on, Marigold,” this time it was Varric that cut him off, grabbing his forearm as he did so. 

The woman was already pointing to a nearby hut, and Gethrael gave her a bright smile. “Ma serannas. I mean th- what?” He said as Varric tugged him away, not really understanding why the dwarf was being so insistent with him. 

“That woman obviously has a few screws loose,” Varric muttered. “Gotta be careful talking to someone like that. Sometimes you can’t get rid of them.”

“Well, she did answer my question,” Geth said, “I’m going to talk to the healer.”

“Yeah, alright.” Varric followed him, and Solas trailed silently a few feet behind, as though he thought he didn’t have much of a choice but wasn’t very happy about it. 

The door to the hut was open, and when Gethrael saw a small elven woman hunched over her table of poultices, he was absolutely delighted. “Aneth ara,” he said it intentionally this time, stepping just inside of the door. She jumped, clearly startled. 

“Oh! Oh, you’re Dalish,” she said noncommitally. “What do you want? I’m very low on herbs, there’s many injured here.”

“I know - I came from the Crossroads,” he said. 

“We’re with the Inquisition,” Varric added sheepishly, stepping in behind him. 

“That’s all well and good, but I’ve my hands full here,” she said. “Especially since I’m nearly out of elfroot. It’s not exactly safe to go out and gather more.”

Gethrael was already slipping his pack off. “I have elfroot; and spindleweed too, if you need it?”

“I… do,” she said, sounding a little astonished. 

“This one’s a bit of a healer himself,” Varric said, sounding almost apologetic as he watched Geth separate out the cut stems of herbs in his pack. 

“Maybe this would be of use, too,” he took out the one stem of ha’feladara he’d found, and stared at it for a moment, realizing he’d only heard its name spoken in elvhen. “Elder elfroot?” 

The healer gave a little huff of laughter, but held out her hands. “Ah, it’s royal elfroot. But; yes, it would be very helpful. You’re sure you don’t need these?”

Gethrael pressed the herbs into her hands, shaking his head. “I’m not much of an herbalist,” he said with a smile. “I’m a spirit healer. You’re desperately needed at the Crossroads - there’s nothing there but Chantry Sisters.”

“Sorry, but I’m not fussed to risk my life going out there for a bunch of humans who wouldn’t care if I lived or died,” she muttered, turning to lay the herbs out on her table. “I’m sure you understand that.”

“The Inquisition will give you an escort,” Varric said helpfully, but Gethrael was already moving again so she’d have to face him. 

“I do,” he planted his hands on the table, looking her in the eye. “But this is how you change minds. Every human life you save is a human that will know they only live because of the mercy of an elf. And you know,” he gave her another thin smile, “I’ve been hearing ‘knife-ear’ a lot less than you’d think, since all this started.” 

They looked at each other for a long moment, and she sighed heavily. Her mouth was tight at the corners. “You’re right. This is bigger than all of us, isn’t it?”

Gethrael nodded eagerly, his smile growing. “It is. This is the time to show everyone that our People are good.”

The healer gave him a curt nod in return. “Right. Get me an escort - I’ll be here packing my things.”

As they left the hut, Varric gave a low whistle. “That was impressive.”

“It’s true!” Gethrael said with a slightly defensive laugh. “If we want a better place in this world for our People, we need to share with others and show them who we are.”

“Your idealism is admirable,” Solas said, in an unreadable tone, “though I’ve met very few Dalish who would agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venavis - stop  
> Ma serannas - thank you  
> Aneth ara - greeting  
> Ha’feladara - royal elfroot


	3. Chapter 3

Though Gethrael had expected they’d make their way back to Haven as escort for refugees; Cassandra had insisted it was out of the question. It would take the refugees twice as long to arrive, if not more due to the injured, and they were needed back sooner. He would’ve been more than happy to care for the wounded, but part of him was quite relieved that they weren’t travelling with the Chantry women. 

It would’ve been nice to draw out the journey, though. Within hours of arriving, he already felt restless; wandering around Haven with no particular plan. 

“Master Lavellan, do you have a moment?”

Josephine Montilyet stood near him, clutching her writing board and radiating the worried energy that Gethrael had always associated with new mothers. He knew she was speaking to him, but that didn’t prevent him from being momentarily confused by her use of his clan name. 

“I’m not busy,” he said with a sheepish smile. “... you can call me Geth, you know. The Dalish don’t really use our clan names that way.”

“Oh!” She looked a little alarmed. “You may have to become accustomed to it, I’m afraid. The family name is very important in noble circles.”

“So many things to get used to,” Gethrael said, still smiling. “I don’t know that I can catch up.”

“That’s... er, related to what I wanted to talk about. Would you come with me?”

He followed her, and was unsurprised to see they were heading to the Chantry, presumably to where she kept her desk. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t easy to find.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it,” she gave a nervous little laugh, closing the door behind them as they entered the small room. “Please - this matter may require privacy, I wasn’t sure of your feelings.” Minaeve was working quietly in the corner, but Josephine didn’t seem bothered by her. 

“Is it that serious?”

“No, no! It’s just, well,” she sighed, “I need to know if anyone has treated you poorly... because you’re... an elf.”

Gethrael grinned at her, not wanting her to think him offended. Who could blame her for being nervous? “I can weather a few whispers and odd looks. I won’t fuss.”

“That isn’t it,” Josephine continued, smoothing the back of her skirts neatly as she sat behind her desk, “you see, the Inquisition already faces a great deal of scrutiny for claiming the Herald of Andraste is a Dalish elf. We have to put forwards a strong front and wholly support you if we are to make others believe it.” She looked a little abashed, “I hope it goes without saying that you shouldn’t have to deal with such prejudices, also. I will speak with the staff. I… also received a letter from your mother. It seems that she, and the rest of your clan, are concerned that we’re holding you prisoner. Cullen wants to send soldiers to inform them otherwise.”

“My… my mother?” Gethrael gave her a confused look, not having the faintest idea what she meant. 

“Keeper Istimaethoriel?”

He couldn’t stop a laugh. “Oh, no. I’m more akin to an… apprentice. We’re not at all related.”

Josephine brought both hands to her mouth, looking mortified. “Oh, I... goodness, I’m so, so sorry. I thought Keeper’s First... how ignorant of me, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“People have made much more harmful assumptions about the Dalish,” Gethrael said cheerfully. “Please, I think you have more important things to worry about. I actually wasn’t even born to clan Lavellan, so I have no blood relations there,” he noticed she was furrowing her brow as though in pity, “that’s not so important among The People. I wasn’t treated differently, nothing like that.”

“May I ask if something happened to your original clan?” She looked genuinely interested, so he had no problem continuing. He always thought outsiders should be educated in the ways of The People, if possible. It was one of the reasons that making him the next Keeper would never go over well with most of Clan Lavellan. 

“Nothing, so far as I know,” he said with his usual smile. “Each clan can have only three mages, including our Keeper. I presented my talent at eight, and my clan already had a second and third. They came from Antiva, and travelled to meet with clan Lavellan.”

“You’re from Antiva as well?” Josephine’s face lit up with delight. 

“I don’t remember much,” he felt a little bit bad about that because of how much it seemed to excite her. “Mostly that it was very warm.”

She leaned forwards, resting her forearms on her desk. “If it is alright with you... Gethrael,” she said his name as though she was still worried it was improper. “Could I ask you more questions about your culture? The stories about ‘wild Dalish elves’ have gotten even more outrageous as word spreads about you... and I think it would benefit me to be a little more educated on the subject.”

“‘Wild Dalish elves’?” He said dubiously, narrowing his eyes. “What stories are these?”

“I prefer not to repeat them,” she waved him off, looking uncomfortable. “I fear some of them are quite offensive.”

“Give me something to go off of,” Gethrael said, bemused, “it’s not as though I’ll think _you_ believe these things.”

Josephine gave another heavy sigh, bringing a hand to her forehead and staring down at her desk, embarrassed. “Stealing children, eating humans, incestual marriages, using their own newborn babies in blood magic rituals,” she winced, and seemed afraid to meet his gaze again. 

“I mean, that’s ridiculous,” Gethrael said, with another short little laugh. It’s not as though he was surprised, either. 

“That’s... ugh. That’s only what is being said about your fellow Dalish,” she gave him a look that was openly apologetic. “I really do not care to repeat what’s said about you personally.”

“The problem is,” Gethrael said, finally perching on the chair in front of her desk, “the people who say such things are the first to take a knife to someone with pointed ears. My clan defended ourselves against them more times than I can count. I wouldn’t want harm to come to any elves because my presence has... increased paranoia.”

“Really? I... had no idea,” again it seemed she was ashamed, though Gethrael couldn’t say if it was by her lack of understanding or the actions of her fellow humans. “That’s terrible. I will do my best to stop this slander.” Awkwardly adjusting a few pages on her desk, Josephine changed the subject. “How are you adjusting? It must be very different for you.”

Gethrael grinned. “I don’t know how anyone knows what doors they should knock on and which they can enter.”

“Goodness! I never thought of that,” she was smiling too, but he didn’t think she was mocking him. He’d been wrong before, but she didn’t seem to be that type of person. 

“Our hunters can spend days tracking, too, making sure they bring back enough meat for the clan. Here, food just... appears,” he frowned, perplexed. “I suppose someone hunts it, I realize they have to. It’s just so strange to me for it to suddenly be there.”

“You know, I never considered it that way.” 

Gethrael could almost hear the disgusted, ‘of course she hasn’t, shem don’t even thank Ghilan’nain!’ Of the Clan hunters. But he would never say that. Josephine was watching him, perhaps with something like pity again. 

“I... understand that Dalish clans live very privately. You must miss your clan very much.”

“Well,” Gethrael felt a little awkward himself. What could he say to her? She seemed very kind, very genuine; and was much easier to talk to than Solas, at the very least. “It was my whole world before I came to the conclave. I never really knew anyone or anything else.”

“That must be difficult,” Josephine said. “Please, let me know if there is anything I might do or obtain for you that would make you more at ease.”

“You’re very kind,” Gethrael said, then paused before realizing there was something, and adding, “I’d really prefer to sleep outside, you know. I’m used to a tent, I end up lying awake most nights I’m here.”

“Oh! I- I don’t know that I can arrange that,” she said, a little flustered. “It will look as though the Inquisition doesn’t value you, and it will be very difficult to explain to any guests that it is because you prefer it. Apologies, but it may also... reinforce some not-so-favourable ideas about your culture. Sleeping on the ground will seem impossibly savage to most Orlesian nobility, I’m afraid. Not that you are a savage, goodness! I...”

Gethrael held up his hands, smiling at her. “Stop fretting. I’m not quite that easy to offend - though I’m very aware that some of my people may be.. If you say sleeping outside will make things difficult, I trust your judgement.” He had to, he hadn’t the first idea how to handle any of this. 

“Thank you,” Josephine sounded relieved. “I will make sure that trust is not misplaced.”

“Wait,” Gethrael said, suddenly remembering more of her words. “... you said Cullen wants to send _soldiers_ to Clan Lavellan? He can’t do that.”

Josephine hurriedly pulled out another sheaf of paper. “Oh?”

“Human soldiers? They’ll attack immediately,” Gethrael said incredulously. “It’s a clear threat to a Dalish camp.”

“Oh! Oh, goodness. I see - I will talk to Leliana about sending a more… subtle envoy, instead.”

…

In nothing but his nightclothes, Gethrael slipped out the door of the cabin. He was not particularly stealthy and only a fool would call him graceful, but he walked softly enough on the loose gravel path not to draw any notice from the few soldiers who were awake and standing guard. 

He’d hoped to grow used to the cabin, but it seemed to become more stifling with each passing day they stayed at Haven. When would they be leaving again? There’d been talk of some horsemaster outside of Redcliffe - that was another six days travel there, at least. Two or three there to do their business, and perhaps three or four return if they got the horses. Maybe two weeks in total he could sleep well, where he wouldn’t feel restless from being still, where he wouldn’t be boxed in this cabin like some beast herded into a barn. 

The grass was very cold on his bare feet, but it was worth that to feel it as he walked. He crept up to Haven’s main gate, staying in its shadow as he watched the soldiers around their fire by the barracks tents. They were talking and laughing, not really guarding; and why should they? Haven was idyllically safe - isolated, perfect. Slipping off the side of the steps, he followed the timber wall to its corner, careful not to look at the fire again so the flash of his eyes wouldn’t give him away if they happened to glance his direction. 

Then he was free. The feeling of being alone in the forest made his heart soar. He heard the sounds of night around him; the whirring and chirping of insects, the whispering of the wind in the trees. There was the hooting of an owl from not too far off. 

_Spare us the moment we become your prey,_ he thought, briefly looking to the sky for Andruil’s messenger. The Way of Three Trees was not his, but nonetheless he counted it a good omen. 

Gethrael had spent his life walking forests, so although he didn’t know this one well, he had no fear of becoming lost in it. Certainly not with a place as big as Haven to come back to. He simply wandered until a spot called to him, a flat-ish stone not surrounded too densely by trees. He breathed deep, feeling the fresh air around him, Mythal watching over him like a physical presence. 

He knelt in the grass, shivering a little as the cold seeped through his nightclothes. Reaching into the small pouch he’d brought with him, he retrieved a handful of dry tree moss and carefully shaped it into a nest. 

“Blessed Sylaise,” he said quietly, starting to strike his flint and steel in a practiced rhythm, hoping to coax a spark into the moss. “Arlise’amelan. Tonight and all nights, I keep your fire. As your child, I seek your wisdom.”

A spark jumped and began to catch. He leaned in and breathed on it gently, feeding it and watching it move and consume like a living thing. All at once, it ate through the moss with a little _whoosh_ of air and he nudged in a few small pieces of bark to sustain the flame. 

“Emma Vir’Atishan. Ar eolas’esayelan. Through your grace, I breathe life into our People. Yours is the flame that burns brightest and longest, yours is the thread that never breaks. Yours is the fertile earth that sprouts the seed, yours is the warmth of the mother’s womb,” it was a devotional, one of many he had memorized, and gazing into the fire he spoke each word of it with intent and feeling. “May you see me and guide me in Mythal’s light.”

 _Even here,_ Gethrael added silently; _you can hear me, here, right? So far from the altars of my People?_ he did not expect an answer, but the fire did not go out. That was enough. 

_Is this what you intended?_ he kept his hands folded in his lap, watching a piece of bark curl and char. _Is it your will to have me called a tool of their Maker? Is it Mythal’s will?_ His chest felt tight. Surely to allow it, to not speak against it; must make him a disgrace to his People. The Herald of Andraste, they said, sent by the Maker himself. 

_Their ways are not ours. They don’t understand that The Creators sent me here._ he looked away from the fire for a brief moment, glancing up at the stars. _I must believe this is my path._ The fire guttered momentarily, and his gaze snapped back to it. 

_Though I don’t know why you would send me._

He let his eyes slide closed, remaining still and silent. He was cold, the longer he did not move the more numbness crept into him. He let the flickering light that filtered through his lids do what it could to impart warmth, and he breathed deeply, and he thought. 

These people needed this, the Revered Mother had told him. They needed the Herald of Andraste, it was all that could give them hope. He imagined the hope he felt now, filled with the Light of the Creators; and... did they not deserve that? Was the Revered Mother not right? Some of these people were dying, and who was he to take that last light from them?

It was a curious purpose for The Creators to give, but-

Gethrael smiled to himself. He’d been right all along, hadn’t he? The People needed to share, to be kind and prove to others their worth; their will to be accepted. Maybe it was time to stop hiding and hurting, and Mythal knew how willing he was. 

Maybe it was not such a curious purpose. 

_I will do my best._

He could only hope that he would be a worthy choice to represent The People, as he knew that even among his own clan there were those who would disagree. They hadn’t even thought he was a good enough representative to be Keeper. 

Yet if The Creators had chosen him, he was not one to question it. He had to trust that they knew best. 

“Blessed Sylaise,” Gethrael said again as the tiny fire started to burn low, “ma serannas ghil’em. Ir mathemah mar’ise.” It was custom to tell her before quenching any fire, but more than that for one made in prayer to her. “Your warmth protects us.”

As he smothered what embers were left with dirt, he felt a small pang of loss. Despite how miserably cold he’d become kneeling here, this was the most familiar thing he’d felt since leaving Clan Lavellan. It was as comforting as slipping into a bedroll that’d been heated by the coals. Still, he’d be returning to sleep in that wooden box with something he didn’t have before. 

Now Gethrael understood. Now he knew why he was here, and that made things already feel a little easier. He could let the humans call him what they must without guilt. He’d been so worried that put his People and his patron to shame. Now he saw it - this was necessary, a Dalish elf as the symbol of their hope. 

He slept a little better that night, when he was finally able to stop shivering. 

…

The summons from Leliana was apparently not _urgent_ , but something about her told Gethrael that he did not want to get in the habit of keeping her waiting. He’d be no real loss to the herbalist; he was only doing the easy work, mostly chopping and grinding. He was desperate for something to do, was all. Having idle hands made him feel even more restless than staying in one place day after day. He bid his farewells and slipped out, assuming the spymaster was somewhere around the tents in front of the chantry she used as a base of operations. On his way there, he received no less than four ‘Maker be with you’s. He also got a wave from Varric, which was tempting. The dwarf had told him that he’d teach him a card game called ‘Wicked Grace’ when they were back at Haven, and that hadn’t happened yet. 

It was probably best to do this thing for Leliana first. 

As he approached the tent, he didn’t see her anywhere. He looked around, a little confused - though her agent had said it wasn’t urgent, he didn’t think that would mean she was unavailable at the moment. 

“Check the Chantry,” said a hooded woman with a strong Ferelden accent, presumably another of Leliana’s people. Gethrael glanced around again, not really sure if she was talking to him. “Yes you, Herald.”

He gave her a sheepish smile and an awkward wave, which he stopped in the middle of when he realized he had no idea why he was doing it. He turned and went into the Chantry without even trying to say anything else. 

As usual, it was quiet and felt almost crushingly close, at least to Gethrael. He glanced around for Leliana’s red hair, but did not see her. He’d just begun to consider going to ask Josephine when there was a light touch on his elbow. 

“Herald,” Leliana said softly. He hadn’t noticed her approach, but he supposed she was good at that. “Let us speak in the back room.”

Gethrael nodded, not knowing what she could possibly want to talk to him alone about. Maybe this was to do with sending an envoy to Clan Lavellan? Either way, he followed her lead and didn’t say a word until they were cloistered inside the room they’d been using as a ‘war room’. This seemed a little bit funny to him, but then again; he’d never seen a war room, so what would he know?

“What do you know of the Grey Wardens?” 

_Alright, that wasn’t what I expected._ Gethrael cocked his head, a little confused. “Not much. They turn up to fight against The Blight.”

Leliana gave him a small, secret smile. “That much is true, yes. They can sense Darkspawn, and are immune to the effects of The Blight itself. Shortly after Conclave, I heard rumours that the Wardens were disappearing,” she paused, her emotions unreadable. “I have several contacts within the Wardens. I hesitate even to consider they may be involved, but… when I reached out, I discovered that the Wardens are nowhere to be found; in both Ferelden and Orlais.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be hard to find? I mean, unless there’s a Blight,” the elf said, wondering why she was telling him this - and even more so why she was telling him alone, and not including Cullen, Cassandra, and Josephine. Any one of them would surely have better input than he did. 

“Hard to find, yes. Completely disappearing is another matter entirely.”

Gethrael nodded slowly, but gave up after only a moment’s thought, because he had no clue. “What exactly do you need me for?”

“There have been sightings of a Warden recruiter by the name of Blackwall in the Hinterlands. I would very much like to ask him some questions.” She still sounded perfectly pleasant, but again Gethrael sensed whatever it was about her that unnerved him. 

“... shouldn’t you tell Cassandra this?”

“Truth be told,” Leliana said, leaning on the table; which was still laid out with maps and pins, “there are several reasons I don’t want to do so. Foremost, I believe she will dismiss my interest in the whereabouts of the Wardens as personal, as she knows that one of my contacts is an old friend.”

“You want me to tell her instead? I could, but I’m not sure she would believe I thought of it,” Gethrael grinned at her, “and I’m not a very good liar.”

She smiled back, seemingly in spite of herself. “... no, though it is sweet of you to offer. I must send you back to the Hinterlands regardless. The Inquisition sorely needs horses - as I’m sure you can attest - and the finest horsemaster in Ferelden keeps his farm just outside of Redcliffe.”

The prospect of travelling again was by itself enough to make Geth happy. “I can ride, and I’ve helped herding halla a little. We’re bringing the horses back?”

“I hope so,” Leliana gave a small tinkling laugh. “Our scouts have been unable to reach him due to rifts blocking access to the farm. Presumably he’s holed up, defending his property, so it seems prudent to send you to care of this problem and make contact.”

“... by myself?” 

That got a genuine laugh out of the Spymaster, and Gethrael gave a sheepish smile in return. “No, no. You are still the Inquisition’s greatest asset, and cannot be risked. I’ve already spoken to Cassandra about this.”

“I’m not sure anyone’s called me the greatest asset of anything before,” Gethrael said brightly. “And you want me to talk to this Blackwall? I don’t know what I can do unless he comes willingly.”

“At the very least, I would ask you find out what he knows. Maybe it is very little.” Leliana shuffled through the pile of regional maps, spreading the one of the Hinterlands over the table. “My sources tell me that you can find him here,” she tapped a lake with her fingernail, “this is very near to one of the camps we established on your last visit.”

“I know it,” Gethrael said confidently, remembering the small waterfall and babbling brook that ran through the camp. 

“Very good. And please,” again she was giving him that secret smile, “if you believe it necessary, alert my agents at the camp, and they will-”

There was a sharp knock on the door. Leliana straightened, casually folding the map again as she did. “Yes?”

“I have important information for you, Sister Nightingale,” someone said through the door. 

“You may enter.”

The scout slipped in with an intensity that Gethrael would subscribe much more to bursting through. “Your hunch was correct,” he said immediately, but when he saw the elf his mouth snapped shut. 

“This is the Herald,” Leliana said calmly, “you may speak in front of him.”

A curt nod. “Butler has turned on us,” he opened the leather satchel at his side, rifling through a sheaf of papers. “I have the reports.”

The Spymaster’s face tightened, and Gethrael felt certain that if he was on the receiving end of that look, his blood would run cold. “There were so many questions surrounding Farrier’s death - he thought I wouldn’t notice? Now he’s killed one of my best agents, and knows the locations of many others. Let me see those,” she took the reports and began laying them out on the table, then looked up at the agent in front of her. “Make it clean. Painless, if you can. We were friends, once.”

“You have to kill him?” Gethrael said, though he knew it was not really his place to speak. She could’ve told him to leave, after all. Leliana’s hard stare turned on him, but he did not look away. 

“You find fault with my decision? He murdered my agent,” she snapped. 

Gethrael held up his hands as though in self defence. “I’m no spy,” funny thing to say considering that was exactly what the Keeper had called him when she sent him to Conclave, “but… I don’t know, I suppose I thought there was more to it than that.”

“Butler’s betrayal puts many in danger,” Leliana said, “I condemn one man to save dozens. He knew what the price would be when I discovered him - I do not enjoy it, but there must be no mercy in this work.” She no longer seemed angry, but certainly stern. 

“You’re right,” Gethrael said, regretting that he said anything at all. “You can’t put others at risk for him. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“We must do whatever it takes to protect our interests. I am glad you agree,” she gave a nod to her agent, who left without a word. 

“I hope I keep agreeing with you,” Geth said playfully, unable to bear her intensity much longer, “if I don’t, I might be in danger of getting killed.”

That earned him another laugh. “As long as we both desire what is best for this organization… I think you are _probably_ safe.” She returned his grin with a small smile of her own, before gathering up the reports she’d been given. “Now - I have more work to do. We will speak again before you depart.”

Gethrael took his leave of the spymaster, thinking now might be the time to bother Varric if they wouldn’t be here much longer. The very thought had him feeling lighter. He quite liked riding, too; especially horses. It was hard to keep a good seat on a halla, and he always felt a little rattled by the time he dismounted. 

“Pardon me,” a young man stepped in front of him as he descended the Chantry steps. A soldier’s bearing, definitely, and plate armor. One of Cullen’s men? “I’ve been trying to speak to someone with the Inquisition, but no one will see me.”

“Oh,” Gethrael was taken aback that anyone would assume he was important, especially without knowing that he was the ‘Herald’. “I could at least pass a message. What do you need?”

“There’s word of Tevinter mercenaries landing on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers this information free of charge,” the young man said, all military professionalism. “If you’d like to see what The Bull’s Chargers can offer the Inquisition, you’re welcome to meet us there and watch us work.”

Cullen had just been saying how badly they needed troops at the last war table meeting, and had even said they should consider hiring mercenaries. “I’ll tell our Commander right away,” Geth was by no means going to make any military decisions; he wasn’t even a hunter. 

“We’re the best you’ll find,” the young man said, the pride in his voice very clear, “Meet us at the Storm Coast and see us in action.”

“Ma serannas. I look forwards to it.” Gethrael internally kicked himself as he walked away - he really needed to stop speaking Elvhen to humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arlise’amelan - hearth keeper  
> Emma Vir’Atishan - mine is the Path of Peace  
> Ar eolas’esayelan - I seek your knowledge  
> ma serannas ghil’em - thank you for guiding me  
> Ir mathemah mar’ise - I’m going to quench your fire


	4. Chapter 4

It’d already been raining for two days, and they hadn’t even hit the Coast proper. Gethrael, like everyone else, had completely abandoned trying to stay even remotely dry. None of his clothing, tent or possessions had been dry for a while, so what was the point? At least it wasn’t particularly cold, though with how soaked through he was; he did shiver whenever there was a breeze. Varric had been grumbling constantly for the past day or so, periodically trying to cover his head with something despite the rain already dripping off of his nose. Though Solas didn’t express being bothered, he also kept a hood pulled low over his face from first light until he disappeared into his tent in the evening, and refused all of Gethrael’s attempts to engage him in conversation of any kind. Cassandra alone seemed not even to notice, though surely her armour must be even heavier wet.

Geth was disappointed to learn that none of his companions had heard of sil’messhos’vianos, the way that the soles of one’s feet felt after wearing wet shoes for too long, though at least Varric and Cassandra knew the sensation he was talking about. The dwarf also made sure to tell him at least three more times that it was unnerving how not miserable he was, though Gethrael wasn’t really sure what the point of being miserable would be. It wouldn’t change the weather, or make him any drier. Besides, there was a part of him that liked storms. They’d always made him feel alive, the current of his magic inside of him buzzing pleasantly.

“So, you’re from Nevarra?” He asked Cassandra, feeling like it’d been forever since anyone had said anything. He quickened his step a little to walk beside her.

The Seeker just grunted in response.

“Good luck, Marigold,” Varric muttered, throwing in a curse as he stumbled on the rocky slope. “Under these circumstances, even I’m finding you pretty annoying.”

Gethrael was well used to that, so continued trying to make conversation. “I just feel like I don’t know anything about you.”

“There is not much to know.” Cassandra said flatly, not looking at him.

“That’s awfully modest of you,” he teased, and she grunted at him again.

“I’m no braggart.”

“No, but you’re very interesting!”

Varric said something that sounded like “- more manic than usual,” but Gethrael continued to pay him no mind.

Cassandra sighed heavily, wiping the rainwater out of her eyes with the back of an equally wet glove. “Very well. I am a daughter of the royal house of Nevarra, seventy-eighth in line for the Nevarran throne. I joined the Seekers of Truth as a young woman, and was with the Order until they withdrew from the Chantry. I remained as the Divine’s Right Hand, carrying out her order to form the Inquisition - and here we are.” She looked around the grey, soggy expanse of slippery rocks and sparse trees, implying a comment on the weather situation that she had yet to actually make. “That’s all there is to know, my lord.”

“My _lord_ ,” Gethrael snorted. “What happened to ‘Lavellan’?”

“You said that is not your name,” she said, finally giving him at least a side-eye.

“Well, it isn’t,” he said playfully, smiling at her. “You could call me my name, you know.”

“... I think not,” Cassandra said, looking almost embarrassed.

“Very well, Miss Cassandra,” Gethrael said, trying to imitate her stiff way of speech to the best of his ability. “You’re a princess, then?”

She gave a derisive huff. “Hardly. The Pentaghasts are a very large family. Half of Cumberland is in line for Nevarra’s throne.”

“Really?” That seemed inconceivable to him, for so many people to be related by blood.

“...no, but it does feel that way,” Cassandra said, perhaps slightly sheepish. “I have hundreds of relatives so distant that they need charts to prove we are related at all. And they have them, oh, yes. The Pentaghasts value their precious blood like it runs with gold.” Though she always sounded disgusted, she seemed more so than usual.

“I can just imagine you with your chart, in a fancy gown,” Gethrael said, grinning.

“Ugh,” she actually curled her lip, then saw his face. “Oh, you were... not serious, I see. Yes; it was a useless, decadent life that was well worth getting away from.”

“Oh, don’t let up now - she’s got lots of exciting stories,” Varric said, still clearly in a bad mood. “Right, Seeker? You should tell him about how you got to be the Right Hand. That’s a really good one.”

Cassandra nearly cut him off with her most disgruntled noise yet. “Absolutely not. That is enough for the moment,” she added to Geth’s hopeful look.

Though the constant rain made the passage of time more difficult to track, it wasn’t terribly long before they were met by two scouts, one of whom turned out to be Harding, the lovely little dwarf he’d met in the Hinterlands.

“You know, I feel like we just keep running into each other,” Gethrael said, giving her a grin when she pulled her hood down.

She smiled back at him. “You could say that. Sorry I don’t have better news, but some of my scouts have come up missing. They were supposed to be meeting with a group of bandits further up the coast, but we lost contact with them before the rendezvous time.”

“Hm,” Cassandra grunted.

“I’d appreciate it if you could look into it,” Harding said, “I’d like to know what happened.”

“I can give you a pretty good guess,” Varric said.

“... and you’re probably right,” she replied, a little sadly. “We haven’t heard of any Grey Warden activity,” she added, “but those mercenaries you mentioned aren’t too far from here. Come on, I’ll take you to camp.”

They followed her up the rise, which got steep enough and was slippery enough that Gethrael needed to use his hands to make sure he didn’t fall. The camp had a sad fire going, guttering and spitting from the rain; and the tents encircling it were as wet as their own - though maybe at least not saturated. Though Geth understood why it was a good idea to make a camp on the highest possible ground, there was definitely wind up here, and it immediately had him trembling.

“Wet, isn’t it?” Harding said wryly. “We have some dry blankets. Whenever it lets up for more than a few minutes we stoke up the fire and dry out whatever we can.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Gethrael said, and was likewise happy to accept what food they had to offer. At least it was warmed in the coals of the fire pit.

After a little rest under one of the rain shelters that left them absolutely no drier, they set out to climb down to the beach. Though Harding pointed them to the best path, they were all barely able to keep their feet. Gethrael got shouted at by Cassandra when he ended up sliding several yards on a steeply slanted rock face, despite being fine.

The water looked black and threatening, heaving white-tipped waves crashing on the shore. By the time they set foot on the beach, the saltiness that hung in the air had become the overwhelming stink of rotting seaweed, infinitely less pleasant. Gethrael recognized it from his time on the boat between the Free Marches and Ferelden.

“Don’t like the ocean, Marigold?”

“Who would like this,” Gethrael motioned to the dark water. “What is there to like?”

“... you know, it’s hard to argue when it looks like that.”

“There is fighting up ahead,” Cassandra said sharply, taking up her shield and unsheathing her sword. “Be ready.”

As they got closer, they could hear it - the clang of steel on steel, bellowing shouts and the garbled cries of men being cut down. They rounded the corner onto the spit and saw a battle already well in progress, bodies laying in the churned, wet sand.

There was the flash of Solas’s spirit shield, and Cassandra charged in without so much as a pause. Gethrael was momentarily confused, wondering how in Mythal’s name he was supposed to know who his enemies were.

Alright, alright. A good number of them had mismatched armour; it would make sense for those to be the mercenaries. He didn’t see anyone that he recognized as the young man that’d come to Haven, but certainly he wouldn’t know him until he got a better look. There was definitely a man who stood head and shoulders above the rest, easily marked by a pair of horns and swinging a massive axe.

Even Gethrael was able to make the connection between those horns and the name ‘The Iron Bull’.

Varric smacked the elf in the hip with his elbow, not taking his hands from his crossbow as the next bolt drew into place with a mechanical clicking. “Don’t you freeze up on me!”

“I don’t know who to hit,” Gethrael said, feeling electricity crackle up the back of his throat, the smell of ozone so strong he could taste it on his tongue. His wet clothes stuck to his skin. With the weather like this, anything he concentrated his power on... well...

“Let’s hit someone!”

The men wearing the same armour. Alright. He could see... one, two, there was four, five, six... no - five, six, seven. Without giving himself the chance to second guess it again, Gethrael embraced the storm and spiked the blade of his staff into the sand.

The effect was immediate, his entire body buzzing head to toe as the sky split open above him. There was a blinding flash; the very air around him sizzling as lightning forked down to strike his staff directly. Blood pounded in his ears as he let it chain on his targets, the wood under his fingers vibrating as it struggled to contain the raw energy of the thunderstorm when it was only meant to channel _him._

Gethrael called it off when he saw the seventh man light up and convulse, and actually had to catch his breath. That was exhilarating. He realized he was laughing.

The battle was not over yet, though the mercenaries definitely made great use of the advantage he’d given them. He stayed near Varric, slinging sparks the moment he got his breath back; and the dwarf gave him some word of encouragement he didn’t hear well enough to comprehend. Solas had circled around nearly to the other side of the fight, his back to the cliff, and was concentrating on shielding as many people as he could.

There was Cassandra! Gethrael spotted her again as he wove a spirit shield around some of the mercenaries that Solas hadn’t caught in his. The Seeker was fending off two men at once with the help of her buckler; he’d never seen anything like it. As the fighting started to spill towards them, Varric disappeared from his side. Gethrael glanced around for him, suddenly worried, and next thing he knew his feet were kicked out from under him. He came down hard in the wet sand, only just managing to bring the length of his staff up in time to block the handaxe swinging down at him. It notched into the wood with a _thuk_ , and Gethrael saw the warrior baring teeth at him.

He grabbed for the storm instinctively, but he didn’t have it in him yet - and his mind simply didn’t offer anything else he could do.

Just as the man shook his axe free, a far larger one bit into the side of his stomach with an indescribable sound. Gethrael watched it stop at his spine and be yanked back with less effort than the attacker had used a moment earlier. Entrails spilled from his gut to drop between Geth’s splayed feet, spattering his boots with blood.

The Qunari stood before him, pushing the body out of the way like refuse. He was even bigger up close, maybe over seven feet tall and with biceps that must be larger than Gethrael’s waist.

“You must be Iron Bull,” the elf said conversationally, despite being on his ass and surrounded by viscera. The rain was already soaking the blood into the sand and making it run off of his boots.

“ _The_ Iron Bull,” he said in a low, rumbling voice that nonetheless sounded bemused. “I like the article - makes me sound like some kind of mindless killing machine.”

“Sorry,” Gethrael clambered to his feet, grinning up at the Qunari. _“ _The__ Iron Bull.” Wow. Perhaps the heart-pounding adrenaline was not helping, but wow. He unabashedly looked up and down from his new vantage point. He’d never seen a man that he could really even compare to this one.

“That’s all of them, Chief,” that was the young man who’d come to Haven.

“And you’ve already met my Second-in-Command, Cremisius Aclassi. Everyone alive, Krem?”

Cremisius met Geth’s eye and gave him a short nod. “Yeah. No dead, five wounded.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Tell the throatcutters to get to work, I don’t want any of these Tevinter bastards surviving. No offense.” Despite The Iron Bull having only one eye, he gave the impression that he might be winking there.

“None taken, Chief.”

“Don’t fight a lot, do you?” The Qunari turned his attention to Gethrael again, maybe more bemused than judgemental. “Need to work on your reactions, or you’re going to end up dead. Useful, though - that lightning thing of yours.”

“I was a healer until a few weeks ago,” the elf said cheerfully.

“Ha - well, you need us more than I thought,” The Iron Bull said, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “And you don’t just get my boys. You get me,” he gave a little smirk that seemed to be just for Geth and definitely kept his adrenaline pumping. “I can be a damn good bodyguard.”

“And what can you offer the Inquisition?” Cassandra demanded, appearing seemingly out of nowhere by Geth’s shoulder.

“Heard of the Ben-Hasserath?”

Gethrael had not, so he hoped it was going to be explained. Cassandra narrowed her eyes suspiciously; though that was quite normal for her. “Spies of the Qunari,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yeah. The Qun is pretty nervous about the Breach. I’m under orders to join the Inquisition, get close enough to those in power to keep them updated. I also get regular reports from the Qun - and I’ll give you access to that information.” The Iron Bull seemed like he was being straightforward and honest, at least to Gethrael, but wasn’t he telling them he was a spy? That… was confusing.

“Why would you tell us that?” Geth said, at the same moment that Cassandra gave a sharp, “absolutely not.”

The Iron Bull looked between them, amused, and then settled his gaze on Gethrael. “Because I don’t plan on being dishonest.”

“And what would you be reporting back, exactly?” Varric said. One of his hands was full of bloodied crossbow bolts, but apparently he’d been hanging around close enough to hear. Solas, at least, did not seem to be - he was still near the cliff, and looked as though he was watching the mercenaries clean up.

“We are not entertaining this,” Cassandra snapped.

“Sure we are,” the dwarf grinned, coming up on Gethrael’s other side. At the Seeker’s inevitable disgusted grunt, he added, “Leliana would, and you know it.” He looked up at The Iron Bull and asked again, “so what are you planning on telling them?”

“Just enough so they don’t decide they need to invade to fix that hole in the sky themselves,” the Qunari said, not seeming bothered at all by the questions, even to expect them. “If they have someone letting them know the Inquisition has it under control, they’ll be more than happy not coming anywhere near it.”

“Throatcutters are done, Chief,” Cremisius called from somewhere behind him.

“Good - split open the casks, we’ll celebrate!”

“Aren’t you people supposed to like spreading the Qun?” Varric said skeptically. The way he was watching the Qunari, Geth thought he was trying to get the measure of him.

The Iron Bull held up a hand. “Not everyone here would do so well under the Qun.”

“How can we believe anything he says,” Cassandra said, brow furrowed.

“... I don’t think there’s a reason to lie,” Varric said carefully. “What do you think, Marigold?”

Gethrael was a little startled, and gave the dwarf a confused look. “I don’t know why you’d want my opinion.”

Cassandra started to say something, but Varric cut her off with an, “Ah-ah, Seeker. He’s the one with the Mark.”

 _“_ Cullen said we need more forces,” Geth said after a moment, as he hadn’t exactly been preparing his thoughts and wasn’t even sure what they were. “Aren’t mercenaries the best way?”

The Iron Bull caught his eye and gave a small nod, as though knowing that’d been as good as a guess. Gethrael smiled back.

“Ugh, debatable,” Cassandra muttered, “the fastest, yes; but I do not like this.”

“Let’s not risk a Qun invasion, alright? How about this - you agree to work with our Spymaster on what you’re sending?” Varric said, glancing between all three of them, though Gethrael was still a little confused by his inclusion.

“Happy to,” The Iron Bull grinned, holding out a hand to shake. Varric didn’t take it, instead giving Geth another bump with his elbow.

“I am not sure about this - but I concede,” the Seeker said stiffly. When she didn’t take his hand either, Gethrael gave up on trying to figure out why he’d be doing it instead of either of them and took the Qunari’s hand, which swallowed his so completely that it could barely be called a handshake.

“I suppose you’re coming with us, then,” he said with a little laugh.

…

“So, I take it your name isn’t _Marigold_ ,” the deep voice of the Qunari was completely unmistakable, and the teasing tone in it made Gethrael’s stomach do a pleasant little flip.

Night had fallen, and the Chargers had moved their camp to the Inquisition’s; making it a suddenly very lively place. It’d finally stopped raining for more than a moment or two, and the mercenaries were happily sharing their ale around bonfires that’d been stoked to burn hot so they might dry everyone’s clothes.

Gethrael gave a wide smile, twisting around to look up at him. “No, but I suppose you can call me that if you want,” he teased back. “My name is Gethrael.” He’d been sitting back from all the noise, watching with interest as Varric, Harding and the scouts drank and laughed with the Chargers; Varric in particular seeming to be in his element. Cassandra sat by the fire with a mug, but was silent; and Solas was nowhere to be seen.

“You don’t wanna join in?” The Iron Bull jerked his head towards the others. “Didn’t strike me as the shy type.”

Gethrael shook his head. “I’m not shy. My people aren’t much for this kind of thing, so I thought I’d watch a while… there’s a lot of human customs I don’t know,” he said, looking up at the Qunari hopefully. From the few things he’d heard about the culture of the Qun, it sounded drastically different than that of the Maker-fearing humans.

The Iron Bull gave a low chuckle, sitting down next to him. Even seated, Gethrael felt he was easily half the size of this huge man. “You’ll get the hang of it. Long as you’re willing to have a few drinks and let loose a bit, you start fitting in no problem.”

“Even if they call you the ‘Herald of Andraste’?” The elf said with a grin.

“Well, not too much experience with that,” he teased, “but a lot of ‘em will stop giving a shit about you being an elf - once they get to know you, that is.” Something about that tone might imply he wanted to ‘get to know’ Gethrael, but perhaps that was wishful thinking.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever been told to ‘let loose’ in my entire life, you know.”

“Your clan have a stick up their ass? Ah - I can see on your face that’s a no,” The Iron Bull chuckled again. “So, what do you have to do for the Dalish to think you’re out of control?”

“I’m not sure what stories you’ve heard,” Gethrael said with half-lidded eyes, because he had an idea what some of them might be. “But… it depends who you ask. For some, not hating humans is enough.” He felt a little strange saying something so serious, so he dropped back into his flirtatious tone. “Besides, I never said I was out of control. Those are your words.”

“Speaking of control, you’ve gotta work on being more aware of yourself in a fight,” the Qunari said, not unkindly. “It’s an experience thing - but if you don’t do something about it you’ll definitely wind up dead sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

“What happened to being my bodyguard?” Gethrael said with a little smile.

That got a real laugh. “Can’t always be there, can I? Me and my guys spar a lot. You should join in.” The Iron Bull looked him in the eye and gave him a smug, lopsided grin that made him curl his toes inside his boots. “You’ll really kick ass when you know what you’re doing.”

When Gethrael retired to his tent; finally a little bit warmer and drier, pal’isalathe was still making his stomach squirm. The hunger that he was accustomed to had been a little quieter since the conclave, maybe even the quietest it’d been since he’d come into potency - before he’d even received his vallaslin. What with everything going on, that didn’t seem so strange, not when his thoughts were consumed by being called the Herald. His body was busy adjusting to sleeping inside and eating different foods; and the Mark, too. Though he’d touched himself habitually a few times, hoping to bring sleep sooner, he hadn’t felt the need of pal’isalathe. Now, predictably, the moment something called it up, his appetite was making itself known. At least he had his own tent, as much privacy as he was used to, and he could bury himself in his blankets and spend as much time taking care of it as he needed.

He certainly had plenty to think about, namely how it would feel to be held down by a man who could certainly break his bones before breaking a sweat. Though he could only begin to imagine what it would be like to be taken with what must be an enormous cock, he’d once performed av’pala on a human man. That made it much easier to think of the taste, the smell of musk, the weight of the hardness against his tongue. He just had to consider how much wider he’d need to open his mouth, how the size would choke him…

Gethrael slept very well that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sil’messhos’vianos - compound word I cobbled together, something like ‘to have feet so wet it feels like your soles have holes in them’  
> Pal’isalathe - sexual desire/sexual need  
> Av’pala - oral sex


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, shit,” Varric said from inside the run down shack. “Found those scouts we were looking for!” He called out, before Gethrael - or anyone else - could ask him what the problem was. 

“I’m guessing they’re dead,” Geth said brightly, coming around to the side where there was a gap big enough to enter. He saw the movement of the dwarf through the broken wood slats, and there was just the faintest musky whiff of death. 

“Andraste’s ass, you’ve _got_ to work on your tone. I know that’s just how you sound, but,” Varric let out an audible sigh. “Seriously, Marigold. It’s freaky.”

Gethrael entered the shack, looking around in the gloom. It was overcast and drizzling outside, so although it was mid-morning, it was quite dim. In here, what was left of the structure blocked out most of the remaining light. There were two bodies alright, in what looked to be Inquisition armour. He could hear the buzz of a fly or two that’d arrived a little early. “... I assume they didn’t just drop dead at the same time,” the elf took his staff from his back and summoned a spark to light it up. It leapt between two of the branching ends with an electric hum, filling the shack with crackling blue light. It was mostly empty aside from a few damp and decaying pieces of furniture, and sagging wooden boxes that had no doubt had nothing of value in them for years. 

“Hey, that was better. You sounded a little more grim, there,” Varric shook a finger at him, then turned to investigate a table at the far side of the room while Gethrael knelt to look at the bodies. It was very obvious that they’d been slaughtered with only the most minimal examination. 

“Dead?” Cassandra asked flatly as the shape of her eclipsed the opening in the wall. 

“Their throats were cut,” Gethrael said, watching the flat shine of Solas’ eyes appear over the Seeker’s shoulder. 

“It seems their rendezvous did not go as expected,” the elf said dryly. It was the first time Geth had heard him speak in maybe two days. Cassandra grunted her agreement. 

“Found some notes - and a map,” Varric brought over a pile of paper, curled from the dampness but apparently undamaged. “Looks like it shows where this bandit camp is. Maybe the mercenaries will know the landmarks, they’ve been here longer than us.”

“Let me see that,” Cassandra demanded, holding out her hand and snatching the paper as soon as it was offered. Gethrael watched her examine it with a curled lip. “Some kind of valley.”

Varric stepped closer to Geth and held the notes up to the light, squinting a little. “They’re calling themselves ‘The Blades of Hessarian’, I guess.”

“Hessarian,” the Seeker grunted, “the Tevinter who slew Andraste.”

“It is often called a mercy killing,” Solas said, holding out his hand for the note; waiting for it to be given to him in stark contrast to Cassandra. “As, unless I am mistaken, he gave her a clean death as she burned on the pyre.” He was still covered by his cloak and hood, but Gethrael’s blue light illuminated most of his face from below as he read it. 

“Do we bring the scouts back with us? Or is Harding going to send someone?” Geth asked. He’d never heard of Hessarian and only been dimly aware that Andraste was burned, so he was going to leave that conversation to them. 

“I imagine we’ll just tell her. Didn’t bring any cart or horses to carry them,” Varric said. “The finding was our job.”

“Perhaps this is of some use,” Solas said, looking over the next page, “it appears to be directions for the making of a ceremonial medallion that would allow one to challenge the leader of this group directly.”

“... that any different from what’s going to happen if we just headed over there?” Varric said, bemused. 

The look Solas gave him was utterly unimpressed. “Directly; in one-on-one combat, after passing through the camp unharmed.”

“What is the benefit of this,” Cassandra said. “A camp of bandits who killed our people? Surely we will be cleaning them out, one way or another.”

“My cursory reading of this material suggests that it is a central tenement of this group’s code to pass on leadership this way.”

“We all know bandits have the strictest moral codes,” Varric muttered. “Let’s talk about this at camp, either way.”

...

“My guys could’ve told you these Blades are in that valley somewhere,” Iron Bull said with a bemused sort of smirk. “You’re looking for them?” He had a mug of ale in his hand, though Gethrael found himself wondering if it would even be possible for him to get drunk. On ale it couldn’t be, right?

“We are now,” Cassandra replied stiffly. 

“They ambushed some of our people,” Varric said, “supposed to be a peaceful meeting, but they didn’t really hold up their end.”

“Hey, Krem,” The Iron Bull said sharply, and his lieutenant turned to look from where he was sitting, ten or so feet away. 

“Yeah?”

“Was Skinner that tripped over that encampment, right? The religious nuts?”

“Skinner and Grim, Chief.”

“Think they can find it again?”

“Grim’s nodding!”

Iron Bull held up a hand, as though to say _and there you have it_. Cassandra looked actively disgusted, though she usually did. 

“Guess that’s solved,” Varric said, bemused. 

“Now, the requisition officer believes we should have little trouble procuring this crest,” Solas laid the paper depicting it on the trestle table between them. “Whoever enters wearing it will pass through the camp freely; and then will engage the leader in single combat. Upon their victory, they inherit leadership from their opponent; believed to be blessed by Andraste in doing so. This could be a boon for the Inquisition.”

“You’re volunteering, Chuckles?” 

“I believe the Seeker here would be a far better choice,” said Solas, looking down his nose at the dwarf, and then very pointedly at Cassandra. “You _may_ bring order to this group of thugs.”

“I won’t guess at what you mean, apostate,” she said, a hint of danger in her voice. 

“Sounds like they might be into it - a woman warrior, I mean,” The Iron Bull chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be a nice choice for their prophet?”

“If we are speaking of Andraste’s choices, her own Herald would be far more appropriate,” Gethrael could feel the weight of Cassandra’s gaze as she turned her focus on him. 

“I mean, if they are zealots,” Varric said dubiously, “the Herald of Andraste thing would probably pull some weight.”

Geth was so used to how they talked about him like he wasn’t there that it took a moment to dawn on him what they meant. “You want _me_ to fight the leader?” He gave them a sheepish grin, looking around the table. “I don’t think I’ll win.”

“Yet, you would command the most respect of us all,” the Seeker’s voice only got stronger and more sure. 

“You’re serious?” Iron Bull leaned forwards, as though only now getting genuinely involved in the conversation. “He’s not gonna last a second in a fight like that.”

“He is a _mage_ -“

“Yeah. Qun’s even more scared of magic than your templars, but I know a mage in single combat with a warrior won’t make it much past one hit,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice, giving Cassandra an intense look. “You can trust me on that one. I’ve killed a lot of mages before they could get one spell off on me.”

“He’s right,” Geth said, “I don’t even know many offensive spells. If it starts raining again I’ll be a little stronger, but the storm isn’t really meant to kill. I doubt it would be enough for a larger man.”

Cassandra seemed shocked, even hurt. “You are chosen by the Maker himself,” she said, and her gaze was so pleading and so fixed on his own that he felt horribly guilty telling her he didn’t even believe in the Maker. Surely she must know?

“... you know, Seeker; maybe we shouldn’t bet his life on that,” Varric said, “not when he’s the only one with any chance at fixing the hole in the sky.”

“You’re already pushing your luck,” The Iron Bull said with a bemused chuckle. “No combat training and you’ve just been dumping him in fights.”

Some people might’ve been offended by the whole thing, but Gethrael was not. It was true, after all. He hadn’t fought much; had no reason until now, and his Keeper likely wouldn’t have known how to teach him combat magic anyways. Other than Varric, the Qunari was the first person who seemed to have considered that at all. 

“Historically, many have chosen champions to fight on their behalf,” Solas spoke up again, “countless examples come to mind. Perhaps Cassandra could be the Herald’s champion. Is that agreeable?” Gethrael nodded immediately; he knew that what she was proposing was impossible. 

Arms crossed over her breastplate, she gave one of the grunts that Geth was beginning to see were characteristic of her. 

“You do it, or I will,” Iron Bull said, “this is a stupid thing to get him killed over.”

“... very well,” Cassandra glowered around the table, “I shall be the Herald’s champion.”

“Hey, don’t say it like that,” Varric said, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Champion of the Herald of Andraste - it’s a great honour!”

...

The Iron Bull hadn’t really known what to expect from the brief he’d recieved about the Herald of Andraste. Still, he’d known elves who lived under the Qun and he had a few in his Chargers. Most of them were tough little things with a chip on their shoulder bigger than they were, and subconsciously maybe he’d imagined someone like that. 

The polite cluelessness was… sad. Bull had a suspicion the moment he’d heard it was an elf they were elevating as the ‘Herald’, and indeed, this one had about as much agency as any other tool. Probably less than some, because he didn’t seem very bright. The others mostly talked for him. 

There were benefits to all that, when it came to the Qun’s purpose; but it was sad. If he’d met Gethrael under other circumstances, he’d be asking the elf to join the Chargers, wanting to keep an eye on him until he got the chance to smarten up a bit. Be useful to have a second mage, too. 

And he was really cute. Bull found many opportunities on the trip down into the valley to admire him - small and skinny like elves usually were, but clearly in great physical shape because he kept up no problem, still perky and showing no sign at all of being tired. Made sense, seeing as his people were always travelling. No red hair, but it was a pretty pale cream colour even wet as it was; and from the Qunari’s experience pulling down hair, it promised to be nice and long. It almost matched with the white ink of his tattoo, which swirled around his left eye in thick, organic lines and coloured his lid almost like makeup. The freckles were another thing Iron Bull noticed, dense over his nose despite his bronze skin. Freckles were usually one of the benefits exclusive to redheads. 

From the Ben-Hasserath perspective, the most interesting thing about his appearance was the two scars he had on his face. Scars said a lot about a person - usually how they fought, what they’d been through. That Gethrael was a mage with no combat experience and he had two prominent scars on his face was definitely worthy of attention. One was a straight slice that bisected his forehead over his right eyebrow; though a second look showed the tail of it on the ball of his cheekbone, barely missing his eye socket. Some sort of swooping sword cut, or a scratch from an animal. The other was on the opposite side, so, unlikely to be from the same thing. Something had torn right through his upper lip at some point, leaving a scar that jutted up like a little blade. Bull mostly saw those on guys who got punched in the face a lot; again, didn’t seem to fit. 

“Hey!” Skinner snapped her fingers irately. “Gonna look? It’s right down there.” They were at the top of a steep path that didn’t have much in the way of places to actually walk, and just visible at the bottom were the wooden palisades of what definitely looked like a permanent camp. 

“You went this way?” Bull said, a little dubious but aware he probably shouldn’t be surprised. Grim grunted an affirmative. 

“Great,” muttered the dwarf, “just great.” The Iron Bull found him very interesting so far - he was certainly a skilled liar himself, and his stakes in the Inquisition would need more time to figure out. It seemed like he felt a little sorry for Gethrael, too; he was the only one who encouraged their ‘Herald’ to speak up for himself. 

“You’re lucky I can’t call you a clumsy shemlen,” Skinner called, already picking her way down the steep slope. Gethrael was the next to follow her, and the rest of them cautiously joined one after the other. They were only a third of the way down when the Herald lost his footing and tumbled into her, sending both of them sliding twenty feet down the slope. 

“... and you’re _fucking Dalish!_ ” Bull heard as she picked him up, over his sheepish apologies. 

The Iron Bull suddenly had a very good idea of how the elf had gotten his scars. 

At the foot of the cliff, the palisades rose before them. It started to drizzle again; just barely, more like a dampness hanging in the air than anything else. Bull paid it no mind, but the dwarf started grumbling again. He seemed to do that a lot. 

The other elf mage - Solas - pulled the crest out of his pack and handed it wordlessly to Gethrael. Good idea. They could have guards out here, especially since this party hadn’t exactly been quiet coming down that sorry excuse for a path. 

Solas was the most inscrutable of the whole group. He rarely spoke, and when he did; he was so arrogant it was kind of funny. Where had an elven apostate come upon an ego like that? Iron Bull couldn’t think of any motivation for him to be involved with this, or even how he’d ended up here. All of the more conceited elves Bull met were the kind that spit on even the idea of associating with ‘shemlen’. 

The pendant looked huge and heavy against the little mage’s chest, making Bull want to roll his eye again at the idea of him facing off against some mercenary leader. Maybe a saarebas could do it, but the Qunari hadn’t met a single mage outside of the Qun he’d want to pit against a warrior and bet on. This one; hardly more than a hundred pounds including his wet clothes, and no sense whatsoever of where his body was or what was going on around him… the Seeker woman was insane. 

As they circled around to the front gates of the camp, Bull was ready to defend their little group; to call out to the guards to hold. His hand was in position to take the haft of his axe, and he quickly took stock of their arms and armour. One had a halberd, one a bow, and their outfit was a little nicer than he’d expected it to be. He’d never mistake them for ragtag bandits. 

The guards barely moved. He saw them shift incrementally, start to draw their weapons. They didn’t get further than that. They didn’t signal to each other, either. 

This Crest was something they were waiting for, looking for. What could that mean? A trap was an obvious thought, one that Bull had right away and had even toyed with before they got here. Something didn’t feel quite right for a trap, though. Still, Bull made sure he was in a position where he could cover Gethrael. Not only was the Herald the most vulnerable member of their party, but - if the thing about him being able to close the rifts was true - he was also the most important. Damn that Cassandra for insisting he wear the necklace. 

The guards did nothing but stand down their arms. There was no calling out an alarm, no closing in behind them. No one spoke at all, and neither did any of their party; Varric included. Bull was already seeing that was uncommon for him, but obviously he was smart enough to sense the tension. 

It wasn’t so much a camp as a permanent encampment, houses built stronger than those of some towns. The Blades all turned to look at them as they walked, some stopping halfway as they reached for their swords; some not even beginning. Iron Bull was very interested in their expressions when they saw Gethrael. Some had reverence or amazement on their faces, and he assumed those had heard the Herald was a Dalish elf and made the connection. Others had looks of open disgust or derision, and since he saw no elves among them, it was easy to guess why. Bull got some looks himself, of course. Here it was mostly men wondering if they’d be able to take him down. 

Gethrael looked surprisingly unbothered, not shrinking self-consciously into himself under so many stares - which Bull would not fault anyone for - and not nervous for the upcoming fight. Even people who were very good at hiding their nerves had little tells. It was one of the easiest things to read. Gethrael was very expressive so far, and here he was strolling into enemy territory like it was nothing. 

He may be a puppet of this Inquisition; and dangerously inexperienced, but he had mettle. The Iron Bull was a little impressed. 

The leader of the Blades was impossible to miss, sitting on a rough-hewn throne. Of course he had a throne, these guys always did, didn’t they? That said a good chunk of what Bull needed to know about him. He was a big man, for a human, and as scarred as one would expect for a leader who’d killed his predecessor in battle. The two-handed heavy maul leaning within easy reach caught Bull’s eye right away. Yeah, a reckless two-handed style seemed about right. When the mercenary saw Gethrael, he started to laugh. The elf bore it well, standing straight-backed. In Bull’s peripheral, he saw Skinner scowling. Good thing he trusted her to listen to him. 

“This is the Inquisition?” The man said in a rough voice. Derisive, he didn’t think much of them. That was classic - a man in his position should always be cautious of new potential threats if they wanted to keep their leadership. For some reason they were always going this route of invincible pride instead. Big mistake. 

“Yes,” Gethrael said, not waiting for anyone else to speak for him, “we’re the Inquisition; and you killed our people.”

“So, they send a knife-ear to deal with me? This is an insult,” the mercenary growled, and Bull watched as Cassandra took a breath, saw on her face she was preparing to ask how this man could call himself faithful and insult the Herald of Andraste.

Gethrael silenced her with a sharp wave of his hand, and though Bull couldn’t see the elf’s face; the line of his back and shoulders stiffened. When he spoke, his voice was noticeably different than what Iron Bull had heard so far. His tone was calm, even still affable, but offered no quarter whatsoever. 

“As much as you’d like to kill a _knife-ear_ , you’re going to fight my champion.” He indicated Cassandra, who already had her shield on her arm. 

Mouth set in a snarl, the man got off of his throne. “That’s not how we do things here.” The moment he rose, two of those huge dirty Ferelden dogs came out from behind him. One was already carrying a suspiciously human-sized femur. The dogs stood at attention, awaiting another command while they slavered. Damn, fighting dogs was such a pain in the ass. They’d go for the shortest first, because they liked to grab the neck or the face, and that put Varric and Gethrael at the highest risk. Skinner was furthest from the front so much less likely, and though Cassandra was a tiny little woman; she had plate armour, and more importantly, a shield. Probably used to planting herself so heavy attackers didn’t knock her over, too. 

“Hey, friend,” Varric said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace - but Bull could tell he was mostly getting in a better position to grab his crossbow. “We were trying to respect your tradition. It’s hardly fair to fight a mage who could kill you where you stand, is it? Two warriors, testing their skills in a fight to the death… that’s what I thought the Blades of Hessarian would be about.”

Yeah, the dwarf had a silver tongue. Gethrael just wasn’t threatening, was the thing. The leader came a step closer, then another, trying to intimidate the elf, who didn’t move at all. 

“Like to see him try.”

Varric’s hands were still up, starting to turn and get ready to grip his weapon. Bull saw that Skinner had a knife concealed in her palm, and had shifted her weight to a stance where she could use it. Bull himself was a split second away from having his axe in his hands. Gethrael still wasn’t moving, wasn’t backing down. He was alert, but unlikely to get his staff unslung fast. 

Cassandra sidestepped in front of him, thrusting her shield out and unsheathing her sword in one well-practiced movement. “You will not speak this way to the Herald of Andraste,” she said, jutting her chin out defiantly. Not at all bothered that this guy was more than twice her size. Tough woman. 

Like the start of any fight, everything happened at once. The leader swung his maul back and brought it down with a bellow. The impact on the Seeker’s shield was deafening; but she took it well. Gethrael backed up to get out of her way, bumping directly into Bull’s chest - fuck. A spirit shield flashed around them, Solas’ doing. 

There was a dog on Varric already, his crossbow no good other than as a physical barrier between him and the beast. Bull saw the flash of Skinner’s knife and heard a yelp, but he had other things to worry about. The Qunari grabbed Gethrael none to gently by the bicep and hauled him out of the way, putting himself in a guard position in front of the Herald and trusting Grim to be on it if any of these observers currently behind them joined in the fight. Cassandra was busy exploiting the gap the leader left in his defences when he swung, using her sword with obvious skill. 

The other dog came bounding around its master, and Bull was ready to take it out when it came into his reach for the Herald. 

Instead it smashed its bulk into Cassandra from the side. She was focused on the leader; not prepared for it, and went down heavy. It was a good thing The Iron Bull was already winding up his swing, and redirected it to engage the big bastard instead before he could obliterate the Seeker while she was prone. 

At least it seemed like the rest of these guys really were just watching. For now. 

Bull’s downward sweep was blocked on the shaft of the maul, and he felt the man’s guard barely give under his strength. He felt another flash of respect for Cassandra. 

There was one thing Bull had on his side in most fights: that almost all two-handed warriors relied on strength alone. 

And he was, inevitably, stronger. 

Keeping the maul locked in position to block his axe, Bull bellowed and charged, making the man backslide in the dirt until his heels caught the edge of the platform his shitty chair was on. That dumped him squarely on his ass, but he rolled onto his shoulder as Bull wound up for the killing blow. As the Blades’ leader jumped up, he butted the maul hard into the Qunari’s stomach to push him back. Of course, Bull hardly shifted half a step, but it was enough to make room for a swing intended to break his knee. 

Despite the adrenaline and many years of Qun conditioning, Iron Bull still expected to feel that. Instead he heard the faint sound of the spirit shield shattering around him - nice. 

As the man jumped to his feet, Bull aimed low; under his guard. He felt the axe bite flesh, but it stopped far short of where it should. Growling in frustration, he jerked his weapon back, paying no mind to the mercenary’s guttural grunt of pain. The man wasn’t wearing much armour, but he did have hip guards that’d turned a disembowelment into just a grievous wound. Probably would be fatal, given time, but that wasn’t good enough right now. 

And he kept coming. He lunged at Bull with a roar; putting him on the defensive, and the Qunari quickly feinted left. When the maul hit the dirt he tried to knock it out of the leader’s hands, but failure left him wide open and he took a glancing blow to the ribs. He felt the jarring impact much more than the pain, but he knew it’d hurt later. 

There was a loud, sizzling snap as a bolt of lightning arced past The Iron Bull’s head, striking the man and crawling over his body like a living thing as he seized. 

_Better late than never._

Just as Bull hefted his axe, Cassandra sprinted past him - her sword in her shield hand. She plunged the blade into the mercenary’s chest at just the right angle, a gout of dark blood spattering her face as she pulled it back. 

“Dead!” 

The man crumpled to the ground, the life leaving his eyes almost immediately. Bull opened his mouth to say he had the guy, then noticed Cassandra’s sword arm tucked against her stomach. Looked torn up; totally covered in blood. No wonder she’d dropped her shield and switched. 

“Dog get you?” 

She held her stoic expression for a moment, then let out a tight sigh and he saw a flicker of pain cross her features. “Yes,” she said, like it was an admission of some kind. 

Iron Bull turned when he heard a giddy little laugh, and saw Gethrael grinning ear to ear. He’d been laughing on the beach, too. An adrenaline thing, but cute. Especially since most people at his skill level would be piss-your-pants scared. 

“You good?” 

“Yes,” he said, thin chest heaving under that huge crest as he tried to catch his breath. He had one of the brightest smiles Bull had ever seen, it really came over his whole face. Even in this situation, you couldn’t help but feel good seeing it - must be what people meant when they said a smile was infectious. The elf’s gaze moved to Cassandra, and his expression dropped almost comically. “Oh! Let me-” 

Right. He said he was a healer. 

“So, we done here?” Varric said irately. He seemed unhurt, but was checking over his crossbow with a concerned eye. Skinner was busy picking up her knives. Looked like she had got the dog off him in the end; actually, looked like Grim was the one who’d helped out Cassandra. Solas seemed both totally unconcerned about his companions, and bored with the whole thing. He was a weird one. 

“The Chargers have a medic,” Bull grunted, watching Gethrael trying to cast a heal while the Seeker was refusing to let him look at her arm. “Just so you know.”

“Very good,” Cassandra said stiffly. 

The Herald glanced over his shoulder to say something, but didn’t get more than a syllable into it. One of the Blades of Hessarian was approaching, and he immediately closed his mouth. 

All these guys were still just standing around. Not presenting any threat - just watching. This one was looking at Gethrael with an almost fevered expression in his eyes, and though he wasn’t making any moves for the sword on his belt, Iron Bull subtly moved so he could put himself between the mercenary and the elf. 

“Are you truly Andraste’s Herald?” Yep, Bull could see why his guys had described the Blades as religious nuts. There was real fervour in his voice, and Gethrael looked profoundly uncomfortable with it. In fact, it was the only time Bull had seen him really uncomfortable at all. 

The Qunari got the sense that Cassandra was about to answer for him, and willed her to stay silent. _I want to hear what_ he _has to say about it._

The gathered mercenaries seemed to be holding their breath. Gethrael was still awkwardly twisted around, half-holding Cassandra’s elbow. 

“That’s what I keep hearing,” he tried to play it off as a joke, but it was delivered weakly even compared to what Bull was already seeing to be his standard. 

“He is the one who stepped from the Rift,” Cassandra clarified; and it was impressive she restrained herself to what he might’ve said if he was cleverer, as opposed to what she clearly believed. 

Gasps and murmurs exploded around them, the man immediately dropping to his knees. “It is an honour to serve you, your worship.” 

“Oh,” Gethrael said, looking at Cassandra, then Varric, then at Iron Bull as his smile really started to falter. He didn’t like this and had no idea what he was supposed to say, that much was clear. As the rest of the Blades began kneeling, he started looking a little ill. 

“The Blades of Hessarian have laid in wait for hundreds of years for the moment we could serve Andraste.”

“What about your old leader?” Varric asked, waving a hand to indicate the corpse on the ground. “He didn’t want to serve Andraste?”

“- only wanted to serve himself,” someone called derisively from the small crowd, and a few agreements could be heard scattered throughout. 

“Ah. Not popular, I see,” Varric sounded amused, but Bull caught his concerned look at Gethrael and easily read his, _let’s get him out of here._ “Welcome to the Inquisition. You can trust that our people will be in touch.”


	6. Chapter 6

For three more long, wet days, they scrambled over rocky slopes and through wet sand and brush looking for any trace of the wardens as Leliana had hoped. Other than the Blades of Hessarian, the Storm Coast seemed desolate. It was a far cry from the area surrounding Redcliffe and the Crossroads, which was clogged with templars, apostates, and refugees. 

It was difficult to tell the lateness of the hour with thick clouds darkening the sky, especially when they were occasionally laced with threads of lightning. Despite how frequently it stormed here, it still spoke to the buzzing electricity deep in Gethrael’s core; making him feel far more awake than he wanted to. He had a feeling he was going to sleep very soundly when they finally got away from this weather. He’d been tossing and turning restlessly when he should be falling asleep, still awakening energized early the next morning. He would probably be paying for that on the way back. 

As the sky threatened rain, he watched Cassandra and Harding discuss the areas already searched. The Seeker was no longer holding her damaged arm against her body, but Gethrael was going to see if he could bother her into another healing spell before she disappeared for the night. She still insisted on going out with them, but hadn’t been carrying her shield. It was her decision to make, and Geth knew little to nothing about her style of fighting. That didn’t stop him from feeling like it must be reckless. 

“I’ve got a few people setting up with the Blades of Hessarian,” Harding said, leaning on the table and looking up at Cassandra. “Apparently they seem really happy to serve the Herald, and the Inquisition. Guess that last leader of theirs was pretty brutal.”

“Mnh,” Cassandra grunted. “I suppose Solas was right. This will be a boon for the Inquisition.” She said it with an air of disgust, as though she wouldn’t if he was in earshot. 

“With the Blades no longer a problem… my scouts won’t have trouble continuing the search. Actually, if the Wardens are trying to hide; we might have more luck than you have.” Harding continued. 

“There is other business for the Herald,” Cassandra said, which was news to Gethrael. “If you’re agreeable, perhaps we should return to Haven.”

That sounded just fine. The two women turned away, and Geth could no longer hear them, which didn’t bother him either. He stared into the fire, feeling the heat of it on his face as thunder rumbled low somewhere far off. He felt the tingle of the storm down in his belly. 

_Blessed Sylaise, I keep your fire. Nar’isethala._

“Lavellan!”

Cassandra’s voice startled him out of his reverie. He looked up at her stern face, lit from beneath by the roaring fire. “Yes, Miss Cassandra?” He said, fighting a self-satisfied smile as he saw her twitch of annoyance when he addressed her that way. 

“We return to Haven in the morning.”

He blinked up at her, thinning his lips to stop himself from grinning. “... I don’t think we’ll make it back by morning, it took us more than a week to get here!”

She made a disgusted noise and immediately walked away. 

Gethrael was watching after Cassandra, pleased with himself but just beginning to consider he should maybe follow her and bother her about her arm; when his eye was caught by a woman with a staff on her back, speaking with one of the other Chargers. She was an elf, too, how hadn’t he seen her before? When she turned her head, he actually felt his heart leap. 

That was not just an elf - she was one of The People. 

He reached her just as the dwarf she was talking to was leaving, and she turned to follow him. Gethrael tapped her arm before she could. “Aneth ara,” he said, sounding relieved even to himself. 

“Whut?” She spun around, brow furrowed; and he watched with a grin as she scanned his face. Her features softened as she took him in, and she settled into a smile of her own. “... lath’in’iseth.”

Though her accent was strange to him, hearing the response felt incomparably good. “Teleolasem Elvhen eamahn,” he said excitedly. “Ma’melin Gethrael, Sael Lavellan - or, I was,” he added sheepishly. 

“Ah, yeah,” her grimace said she understood; and obviously she must because she was alone too. “Once they tell you to leave, I mean they don’t say stop saying it, do they? But you know what they mean.”

Gethrael nodded, feeling something drop inside him hearing it spelled out that way, though he’d really always known it. She cuffed him on the shoulder. 

“I’m Da- you know what, just come over here.” 

He followed her behind a semicircle of the Charger’s tents, where a few small stools were set up; possibly for cards or dice. She sat casually, knees spread apart and arms resting on them, and he took the stool opposite her. 

“Who are you?” Gethrael asked eagerly. “You’re a mage, too?” She was a slender elf, tall for a woman; with blonde hair shaved on the side. It was Dirthamen’s vallaslin that’d caught his eye, of course, gracing her cheeks in a pale green. 

“I’m getting there!” She said it like she was frustrated with him, but gave him a big grin. “Look - my name is Tuanuelanain. When I joined up with the Chargers, they wouldn’t even take one run at that. So they, uh, just call me Dalish. I guess you could too, if you want? But I think it’d be a bit weird, right?”

“They just call you ‘Dalish’?” Gethrael repeated, bemused. 

“Ha, yeah.” She wrinkled her nose in a sort of melodramatic wince. “I don’t mind, but if you want to call me Nuela instead; I really don’t mind that either.”

“Tuelanen i’na, Nuela,” he said, unable to stop himself from smiling. 

“I tas i’na, Gethrael,” she started giggling. “Ugh, Maker; Ir abelas - I must sound a fool. It’s been proper ages since I’ve spoken Elvhen.”

Gethrael cocked his head, confused again. “You believe in their Maker?”

“Oh- nah, not really. It’s just kind of an expression, they all say it. And not all of _them_ believe in that either, you know?”

They didn’t? Well… that only made sense; once he thought it over. “I never thought about it like that,” he rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward smile, at least glad it was her he’d learned this from. 

Nuela gave an exaggerated shrug. “Things are different here! I bet you’ve noticed.” 

“Ansuhl,” he said with a little laugh. She paused, and he realized that was probably slang. “Ah, ir abelas… ar vindirthem.”

She nodded, and they smiled at each other for a moment. “You, uh, asked if I was a mage. Ar sil’ahn din. Ar sou’alas’rajelan,” she cuffed him playfully in the arm and winked, “you can’t tell anybody I said that, though.”

“Ahn?” If the wink was supposed to mean something to Gethrael, it didn’t. 

“It’s… kind of a long story; but ir melahn varemah, nar thanelan emaronem Apostate. I started telling everyone I met that I wasn’t a mage,” Nuela held her hands up as if to say ‘what else could I do?’, “I had a couple run-ins with Templars, of course - almost got me once - and I was really careful after that.”

“Even I had problems with Templars on my way to Conclave,” Gethrael said, “and that was after the war started.”

She wrinkled her nose, but her eyes still had a happy sparkle in them. “You kill any of ‘em?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, not bothered by the fact. They’d attacked him, after all. “Usually I hid, if I saw them. Most of them weren’t alone, and I don’t fight well.” He gave another abashed grin. “As everyone’s been telling me.”

“Gotta start somewhere. My point is, when the Chargers found me I told them the same thing. But I’m clutching my staff in my hands as I say it. Krem’s telling me, ‘I can see your staff, it’s right there’, and I keep saying no. Thought they were working for Templars and they were gonna bring me in. I’m saying a bunch of stupid stuff about how I’m a Dalish hunter and this is my bow, and all that; before we get it all worked out. So now it’s a joke - I’ve got to yell that I’m not a mage, see?”

Gethrael wasn’t sure that he did see, but maybe it’d make more sense in practice. He nodded anyways. They talked for a long while, lapsing in and out of Elvhen - in large part about their clans and their Keepers, but also the things they missed. She didn’t ask even once about him being the Herald. The conversation lightened a weight on his shoulders that he’d forgotten was there, and when the rain started again and they both scampered off to their tents, he felt good. She’d urged him to come and drink with the Chargers at some point on the way back; and considering what The Iron Bull had said to him a few days ago, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. 

…

It was kind of slow going with the Chargers in tow, considering there were just under fifty of them plus several carts of gear and supplies. It did mean considerably more company, and a lot more laughter and jokes. Not only were Solas and Cassandra dour travelling companions, but walking all day really seemed to put Varric in a mood. Now he’d been spending quite a lot of time driving one of the carts; and was interested in conversation again. 

“You coming up, Marigold?” He patted the bench of the cart next to himself, “room for one more here.”

“I’m fine,” Gethrael said brightly, “I like walking.” It was easy to keep pace with the cart, too. The horse plodded along with a lazy gait, and he was used to walking alongside the aravel to speak with the driver. 

Varric gave kind of a half laugh, shaking his head. “You Dalish are a little weird. Guess you’re used to this - what do you do if someone twists their ankle?”

“Usually you drive an aravel if you’re injured,” it was an earnest answer, and Varric looked at him for a long moment. 

“That… was a rhetorical question; but ok, you got me. What, so everyone knows how?”

“Obviously. What, you think I’ve never been injured?” Gethrael teased, pointing at the scar on his forehead. 

“Got me again. Let me guess, if you were a character in one of my novels; you would’ve got that in a climactic battle after a years-long bitter rivalry.” Varric gave him a knowing look, “seeing as it’s you… you fell off something.”

The elf had to laugh. “I did - an aravel, actually. A bent nail almost took my eye out.” 

“Andraste’s hairy tits,” Varric said, giving a low whistle. “I hope losing it would’ve made a storyteller out of you, a missing eye is an opportunity for a tale if I ever heard one.”

“I didn’t know Andraste was a dwarf,” Gethrael said unable to quite keep a straight face. When Varric didn’t say anything, he flicked his gaze very blatantly to the ginger curls bursting out of the dwarf’s tunic. 

Varric shook his head in disbelief, but he was laughing. “Maker - don’t say that around Cassandra. Trust me, she won’t laugh.” He paused a moment, snapping the switch next to the horse’s hindquarters as it fell back a half pace. “I’d love to see her face if you did, though.”

“I’d do it for you, but I was hoping I could get her to like me… eventually.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t take it too hard. She dislikes everyone equally.” The dwarf leaned over a little, as though to tell him a secret - despite the moving cart meaning there was still at least two feet of space between them. “If you keep flirting with her, I bet she’ll warm up. Don’t think I’d advise doing it like you have with the Qunari, though. Hah.” He sat up straight again. “Actually, maybe I do. I’d really like to see how she handles that.”

...

The Iron Bull had, for some reason, thought Gethrael would be a bit of a lightweight. It was only when he saw the elf keeping pace with the rest of the Chargers that he remembered Dalish telling him how much those clans drank ale. 

It was Dalish that brought him, actually; and maybe that was better than if he’d just come himself and asked to join in. They were seated across the fire from Bull, so he often caught the flat reflection of their eyes when one of them moved and caught the light just right. Did that ever stop being eerie? The drunker the two of them got, the more they slipped into Elvhen. A weird language - with words that could go on for whole sentences - and not one Bull heard all that often. Still, after learning common it seemed easy to pick up a handful of other stuff here and there. 

“So - are you the Herald, then?” Rocky asked. He was relatively far in his cups, though the only real way to tell was how red his nose was. The dwarf always seemed pretty sober until he passed out on the floor. Wasn’t a sober question, though. 

Gethrael snorted, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. “No,” he said, with an expression of smug not-giving-a-shit that came with a certain level of drunk. 

“Then why d’you let them say it,” Skinner said, sharp as ever. 

“People are going to say it anyways,” he waved his hand dismissively, but didn’t actually look offended. “No matter what I say. And look-” he pointed at the tattoo over his left eye, “it is… _literally_ right on my face that I believe in different gods.” He was still smiling, though Skinner had a scowl of disgust.

“Fucking typical shem.”

“Only so much you can do,” Rocky muttered. 

“Sometimes it just isn’t practical to be a stab-happy psychopath, you know?” Krem said jovially to Skinner, who still looked skeptical. 

“Don’t agree. Gets me out of all kinds of situations,” Skinner said into her mug. 

Dalish leaned over to Gethrael and said something in Elvhen, and he smiled. “And you know, Nuela-” he lapsed back into the language himself. 

“What are you calling her, anyways?” Krem asked, “is it an elf thing?”

“Her _name_ ,” Gethrael laughed, but it seemed good natured. “I mean, a shortened version.”

“Right, can we hear you say the whole thing?” Krem sat up straighter in interest. “It sounds crazy when she says it.”

“It’s Tuanuelanen,” the Herald said without hesitation. When the Chargers just stared at him and Dalish started to giggle, he got a bit of a smug smile and added, “I can tell you what it means.”

“... at least now I know it sounds equally crazy when anyone says it,” Krem shook his head in disbelief. “Alright - what’s it mean, then?”

“Little troublemaker.”

“Aw, rude!” Dalish squealed, though she was still smiling. “Just add that to the list of things they can all harass me about.”

Bull couldn’t help but chuckle. “Getting harassed is a vital part of being in the Chargers.”

“Right, guess your mother was a smart woman,” Krem said, in the usual dry sort of way he delivered things. “What about you, Herald - yours mean anything?” That was Krem for you, always getting everyone included. It was one of the reasons he was such a good second in command; especially in a small group like the Chargers where they were more like family than colleagues. 

“To tell you the truth, not really,” Gethrael said, a little sheepishly. “I was told it’s from ‘eth’, which means ‘safe’; and ‘gaelathe’ which is… ‘perfect’?” He looked at Dalish, who just shrugged. “More like, ‘fully and wholly’, now that I think about it. My Keeper might’ve made that up, though. It’s pretty bastardized,” he laughed. 

“Bit on the nose for a healer, isn’t it?” Dalish said, elbowing him playfully. 

The Herald said something to Dalish again, and although there were no words that Bull recognized, he couldn’t miss Gethrael’s sly glance at him. Sly was… not really the word for it, but seemed to be what he was going for. 

Dalish shrieked with laughter. “Maker, no one talks like that outside of the Clans! Well, in a whorehouse; maybe,” she smacked him in the arm, almost making him spill his mug, and added something in Elvhen. It sounded like a tease, and she made a gesture up and down him with her hand. 

Though Gethrael had been bold before, the eyes he was making tonight felt like they’d be inappropriate in good company. Wasn’t just meeting gazes, either, though he did that with electric intensity. His eyes wandered over Bull’s body, lingered on his hands as his own clenched in his lap, and then drifted further to Bull’s groin. It would be too much for some - he worried for the day the elf did this to a man with an exclusive interest in women - but the Qunari thoroughly approved. He’d definitely be taking this one to bed, although tonight was out of the question. Gethrael was still able to function; not slurring and most likely able to walk and get back to his tent without help, but he was pretty trashed. That was always going to be a no for Bull. 

Still, what he wanted couldn’t be more clear, and while Krem argued with Skinner about… something, The Iron Bull kept watching Gethrael and Dalish talk. He caught ‘ise’ a couple of times, which he knew was ‘heat’ or ‘fire’; but he also knew it was one of those base words that popped up in everything. Easy to understand why when they described stuff instead of having a new word for it. The Herald asked her a question, a shameless grin on his face, and she started cackling again. Her tone and the way she moved her hands gave Bull the impression that her answer was something like, ‘yes, very very much’. 

“What are you two talking about?” The Iron Bull said, his tone somewhere between playful and casual. 

“Nothing appropriate to repeat, chief,” Dalish burst into giggles. 

Dark, almond shaped eyes flashed like mirrors at Bull over the fire. Krem was saying something about, “Your own fault!” Just below a shout, but Gethrael didn’t break eye contact. The elf said something in a low voice - Elvhen, but obvious who he was addressing. 

“Eh, you know me. I kinda like inappropriate,” Bull teased. Dalish didn’t seem bothered being part of the game, she was having a good time with it. 

Gethrael nudged her, said another phrase (contextually, Bull wondered if it could be ‘you can tell him this,’) and grinned at the Qunari as he added something else. 

“He’s saying you make him hot,” Dalish said, in a grandiose sort of way that made it pretty clear she was thoroughly enjoying being in the middle of this. “But; I think you need to know how dirty that is in Elvhen, really doesn’t translate well. Word for word, it would be ‘you make me drip honey’, ‘honey’ here meaning-”

“And that’s my signal to leave,” Krem interjected, holding up both hands in surrender as he stood. 

“Night, Krem,” Iron Bull said with a lopsided grin; watching his second in command go before he turned his attention back to the elf. Gethrael was giving him a smug look, evidently pretty pleased with himself. Bull found that even more attractive than his sweet smile. “So… how do I tell him he’s cute?”

“I speak common, you know,” he said, and his tone was even more shamelessly flirtatious in it. 

“-but it’s ‘ma palasha’,” Dalish said helpfully, leaning closer to Gethrael to be more in Bull’s field of view. 

“Your tongue always so dirty?” Iron Bull very much intended the double entendre. 

“I don’t know,” Gethrael blinked himself out of what he certainly thought were bedroom eyes, furrowing his brow. “Is it?”

Rocky muttered something to himself about this being hard to watch, drinking deeply. Bull’s men were well used to his flirtations, and to him bedding men and women as it suited him. The Chargers were all pretty open about that kind of thing - but of course that made it ripe ground for a ribbing as well. 

Those remaining started to get ready to head to their tents, knowing they’d be travelling from sun up to sun down tomorrow. Iron Bull gave Dalish a stern look that in this context, she should understand to mean she needed to tell the Herald he wasn’t going to get taken to bed when he was so drunk. She did nod, and she was a smart girl. Bull just had a feeling someone would be very disappointed he was going back to his tent alone.

_Another time._

When he returned to his own tent, The Iron Bull unashamedly got stiff thinking of it. Gethrael seemed naturally submissive, though how much his boldness in flirting and teasing would translate to sex was something that Bull looked forwards to finding out. He liked it when someone was willing to be a little pushy and bratty with him. 

It was easy to imagine other Ben-Hasserath agents giving him shit for sleeping with an important mark, but Bull knew exactly what he was doing. Not only was the elf not wielding much power over even his own fate, but that hand of his kept him involved in all this. If the Qunari happened to need more information about the Inquisition, not only would Gethrael undoubtedly know it; but talking him into spilling it promised to be so easy that he wasn’t even going to know it was happening. Harmless to everyone. 

And at least Gethrael would be doing _something_ he wanted to do. That was more than anyone else was offering him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nar’isethala - your flame burns hottest   
> Lath’in’iseth - your grace warms my heart (the correct response to ‘aneth ara’)  
> Teleolasem Elvhen eamahn - I didn’t expect to find one of The People here  
> Ma’melin Gethrael, Sael Lavellan - I am Gethrael, First of Clan Lavellan  
> Tuelanen i’na - creators be with you (here used like ‘well met’)  
> I tas i’na - and also with you (correct response to above)  
> Anhsul - what for (he’s using it more like ‘uh huh’)  
> Ah, ir abelas… ar vindirthem - ah, I’m sorry... I was agreeing with you  
> Ar sil’ahn din. Ar sou’alas’rajelan - I did not answer. I’m a force mage.   
> Ahn? - what?  
> ir melahn varemah, nar thanelan emaronem Apostate - when I left my Clan, a lone mage was considered an apostate.


	7. Chapter 7

“Atish’ma,” Gethrael said softly, his palm resting on the unconscious man’s chest. He’d done what he could with his gifts, and from what he could feel it may not be enough. Then again, the healer had told him as much. 

When they’d arrived back at Haven was only just after the refugees from the Crossroads had finally made it there. Most of those who’d been injured were in poor condition, and Haven’s medics and herbalists were overworked despite their preparation. Of course Gethrael was going to do whatever he could. That was Sylaise’s path, and his. 

“You’re not helping this way,” said a calm voice from over his shoulder, and as he stood, he turned to see Mother Giselle. 

“Maybe not. I can’t work miracles,” he said, trying to crack a joke. He watched her eyes narrow incrementally. 

“Yet there have been several connected with you already,” she said, in a voice that was exceedingly gentle. “These people do not need an elven healer. They need their _Herald_.”

The words felt like a knife twisting in Geth’s side. The earnestness with which she called him the Herald was the worst, worse even than when Cassandra did it. “I don’t know,” he said, keeping at least half of a smile, “I think it’s obvious that injured people need a healer.”

“Yet, what the dying require is a healing of the soul,” the old woman continued, seemingly impervious to his jokes. 

“I’ll need to leave that to you, then. I do only what I can.”

“You can do more than any of us, child,” Mother Giselle gave him a warm smile. “You’re the Herald of Andraste herself. You can offer so much better than a few words in a language they do not speak.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying, Mother,” he said pleasantly, though he had an inkling - and if it was correct he should maybe not be so kind. 

“In their last moments, you could soothe every fear of these children of the Maker,” she said. “What the people need is hope. This is a hope that only you can provide.”

“And I am,” Gethrael replied, the smallest thread of steel creeping into his voice. “I’m not going around telling people they’re dying.”

It failed to provoke her; she remained just as quiet and calm. “And yet, they could know they’re not dying for nothing. They could have hope for the world that endures when they are no more. The Herald could bless them, the very hand of the Maker - and they could pass in comfort and with the knowledge they go to his side.”

“I don’t want to speak something I don’t believe,” he said steadily, “you must know that my people don’t believe in your Maker.”

Mother Giselle still did not look angry, but there was a sternness about her that hadn’t been there at first. “As I said before; few have any choice in their fates. If you are a healer, I beg of you not to steal away the hope of these people in their final moments.”

Gethrael honestly did not know what to say. He was out of words, and there was a dread inside him he couldn’t name. 

“... we all do as we must, Herald,” she said. She looked him in the eye for a long moment before she turned and walked away; leaving him among the wounded and dying for whom he was the only remaining hope. 

“You’re not going to change a mind like hers,” said Solas, stepping out of the shadow beside the nearest cabin. 

“You could’ve helped me,” Gethrael said bluntly, “instead of standing there - what, the whole time?”

Solas gave him a curious look, which wasn’t really the reaction he expected. “What is it you think I could help you with?”

“Anything,” maybe that sounded helpless, but there were so many answers Geth didn’t know where to start. “These poor people, maybe?” He waved a hand to indicate the refugees around them. 

“I am no ladarelan’elgar,” Solas said it as though Gethrael was foolish for thinking so. After a long pause, he added, “come.”

“I’m needed here,” Gethrael said, but Solas was already walking away. 

“The Inquisition has other healers,” the elf said, with the sparest glance back over his shoulder. 

It was not very often that he was actually open to conversation, at least not with Gethrael, which made this a hard opportunity to pass up. Especially when Geth could feel that his reserves were running low, making a rest necessary pretty soon. He trotted after Solas to catch up to him. 

“Your effort is admirable,” Solas said as they walked, “but you can no more stop the prejudices against your people than you can bring the seasons to an end. You are but one man pleading with the ocean to stop sending its waves.”

“I’m not trying to stop the ocean,” Gethrael said, thinking about how he didn’t even want to go near it, really. “I just want to leave a good impression where I go. Sul’ema’nehn.” He met Solas’s blankly skeptical expression with a smile. “That’s the only way to change opinions.”

Solas regarded him for a long, unreadable moment. “Some opinions will never be changed.”

“You don’t know that,” Gethrael made it a tease, despite his mood. “I won’t be what humans expect of the Dalish. I won’t give them fuel to feed their ignorance.” He said it with his chin up defiantly. This was a point he was used to arguing; there were many even within his own clan who did not agree with the kindness and tolerance he showed humans. 

“Though that is noble, it is also dangerously naive,” Solas said, looking down his long nose at Gethrael. “You will find yourself taken advantage of, child - or perhaps you _won’t_ ,” he added pointedly. 

Geth ignored that, and smiled at him instead. “Did you want me to follow you just so you could call me an idiot, hahren?” He watched with amusement as Solas’ mouth twitched in annoyance at the honorific. 

“Hm. I thought to spite the Chantry woman by speaking to you more of Elvhen history,” Solas said in a tone that made it seem like he no longer wanted to. 

“I’ll listen either way,” Gethrael said, as they wandered through the gates of Haven. He caught The Iron Bull’s eye as they passed the Chargers’ tents, trading the Qunari’s appreciative smirk with his brightest smile. 

“It would certainly be impossible for you not to learn something,” Solas said, gazing ahead into the trees, “considering the Dalish strive to remember Halamshiral. That was but a shadow of something far greater-“

“Arlathan,” Gethrael breathed, before realizing he’d interrupted and quickly shutting his mouth. 

He expected Solas to be irritated, but instead the elf looked almost excited at his input. “Elvhenan was the empire, and Arlathan its greatest city. A place of magic and beauty, lost to time.”

There was something almost thrilling about hearing of such things from someone who was not his Keeper, someone who may know more. Even if he did not, hearing the stories in a different voice after so many years interested him. “You said before that you’ve studied the ancient elves. I’d like to hear what you know of them.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard stories of them living in trees, with wooden ramps and Dalish aravels,” Solas said, his tone approaching arch disapproval. “Imagine instead spires of crystal - imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.” Suddenly there was an excitement in him that Geth had only seen when they’d talked about the Fade, and been unable to replicate since, despite many attempts as they’d traveled. 

“Was their magic different than ours?” Gethrael asked, and again Solas considered him for a long moment.

“No, and yes,” they walked through the trees, and more than ever before Geth was put in mind of learning from his Keeper. “Magic is magic, like water is water. Dalish magic is more practical, free from the restraints of the Chantry. A Circle mage is taught with focus on tight control, and with careful avoidance of anything the Chantry deems as dangerous. Practices in Tevinter differ yet more, as they have great interest in innovation no matter the cost.” He turned an intense gaze on Gethrael. “There is a certain subtlety to much of Dalish magic, a legacy of when elves were immortal.”

Even the idea of others having magic different to his own seemed incredibly interesting, and something that Geth wanted to hear more about. However, he had the feeling that Solas was not the person to ask about the Circle, or Tevinter. “What would immortality have to do with it?” he asked instead, and again Solas looked at him as though he’d asked a stupid question.

“Some spells took years to cast, with echoes that lasted centuries. Harmonies of magic weaving together to form new songs,” he said quietly, again doing that wistful stare off into the middle distance. “That is something the Dalish can never hope to understand.”

“You say that like you know it for sure,” Gethrael said, “maybe we could.”

Solas gave him the briefest sidelong glance, one that managed to be all the more withering for it. “An interesting sentiment for one that can hardly control his primal power.”

…

“… the Chargers are a help, all quite skilled; but we still need a strategy for recruitment… or conscription,” Cullen said, leaning on the table with both hands. He looked tired, but Gethrael had never seen him not looking tired. 

“We must address the Chantry,” Cassandra said firmly, “even if we cannot secure their blessing, the way they speak of the Inquisition now is swaying many from our cause.”

“You are obsessed with this, Cassandra,” the Commander said, still leaning heavily on the table. “It only lends credence to the idea that we should care what the Chantry says.”

“I don’t think it’s such a terrible idea, to have the Herald address the Chantry directly,” Josephine piped up. 

“You cannot be serious,” Cullen muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

“Mother Giselle isn’t wrong,” she punctuated herself by gesturing with her quill, “the Chantry’s only strength is that they are united in opinion. We simply need to divide them; make some doubt.”

“And ignore the danger to the Herald?” Leliana said from her quiet corner. 

“Let us ask him,” Josephine’s gaze finally landed on Gethrael, who was almost surprised. 

“I don’t know that this will solve any problems,” Gethrael said sheepishly. “I feel like a Dalish mage isn’t going to go over well, no matter what I say.”

“It must be you,” Josephine said, though she did sound much kinder, and still addressed him directly. “The Chantry - and the people - must see you are no threat to them. You’re very sweet, Gethrael. No one could meet you and think you meant harm.”

“You should know better, Josie,” Leliana said, “that is not how it is in Val Royeaux.”

“What choice do we have, Leliana?” Cassandra cut in again, “as it stands, we can approach no one for help with the Breach.”

“Let us send the Qunari and some of his men,” Cullen said, “there’s no denying he’ll be an effective body guard for Lavellan. Intimidating, at the very least.”

“I will go with him,” Cassandra cut in again, and Cullen gave her an exasperated look. 

“Of course you will, but you’ll need to help with the Chantry. Someone should be solely focused on the Herald _not dying_.” Admittedly, Gethrael liked the idea of Bull coming with him, and not just because of the tightness the Qunari put in his stomach. If there was anything Geth knew of Val Royeaux, it was that the only elves present would likely be servants. If Iron Bull and Varric came along, at least he wouldn’t be completely surrounded by humans. 

“... very well. Leliana, use what influence we have to call the Clerics together. We will see this through.”

...

The journey to Val Royeaux was long, but Gethrael was happy to be on it. They had a few horses, enough for himself, Cassandra and Varric; plus a half dozen Inquisition soldiers. The Chargers brought their own, and with a half dozen of them as well plus The Iron Bull, they were a group of decent size. Surely, Leliana had been worried about nothing - Geth couldn’t possibly feel unsafe with all of these people with him. 

“How many more days of this?” Varric muttered, “my ass is going to fall off.”

“You could always walk,” Gethrael said cheerfully.

“I see you limping when you get off, Marigold. Enough of your sunshine routine.”

Truth be told the horse Geth was riding was much wider than he could sit on comfortably; and his hips were aching after the first day. 

“I’ve had a few rounds with the tamassarins that had me limping after I got off,” said Iron Bull with a shameless chuckle, catching Geth’s eye. 

“Andraste’s flaming ass,” the dwarf shook his head. 

“What’s a tamassarin?” Gethrael asked, eyes sparkling. Despite the ache in his hips and core, Bull immediately stirred a dizzy little hook of pal’isalathe in his stomach with a statement like that. 

“You don’t marry under the Qun,” Bull said, sounding a little bemused, “so you visit the tamassarins to pop your cork whenever you need it. No drama.” Geth immediately perked up. 

“My people believe that not relieving sexual desire leads to foolish decisions,” he said without hesitation, glancing around to see if Nuela was nearby to confirm. She wasn’t - he could see her blonde hair all the way at the front of the party, near Cassandra - and the Chargers that were nearby didn’t even seem to be listening. 

“Ha. They’re not wrong,” The Iron Bull smirked at him, and tugged on the reins of his huge draft horse to make it walk a bit closer to Gethrael’s mare. “That mean the stories of wild elven orgies are true?” 

“Oh, we’re actually encouraged _not_ to-”

He was cut off by a genuine laugh. “Wasn’t being serious. Figure that’d cause some issues if people were related.”

Geth grinned at him. “I would think so. Not that we should be embarrassed about our desires. We’re told our Creators blessed us with desire so we could one day restore our race - not that I’ll be doing that,” he said casually, “if it’s anything close to true.”

Varric muttered something that Gethrael couldn’t hear, hand to his head. 

“And what, they tell you to just use your own hand? That’s a little mean of them,” Bull teased, and Geth’s stomach fluttered. 

“No,” he said, matter-of-fact. “When we’re of age, we’re given our own isalassen, which means ‘arrow of need’. It’s-“

“Maker’s breath, Marigold,” Varric said, interrupting him. “Look, humans don’t talk about this stuff. If the Seeker heard you she’d fall dead on the spot. I know that sounds appealing, but seriously... you’re stuck here, and you’re not making it any easier on yourself.”

Gethrael blinked at him, surprised by such a strong reaction. “What’s the matter with talking about it? It’s a perfectly natural thing that everyone does.”

Iron Bull was chuckling again. “You’re right, but so is he. Humans are shy.”

“Look; it’s like I told you about leaving your tent without clothes on. People here can’t handle that - and since you’re the Herald, a lot of people are paying attention to the shit you do,” Varric said firmly, “I’m doing you a favour.”

“Hah. It’s a damn shame you can’t just join my Chargers,” Bull gave him a friendly nudge that made him slide several inches in the saddle and tugged pleasantly at something in his belly. He surreptitiously readjusted himself. 

“There’s no reason to be ashamed of these things,” Gethrael said plainly. 

The dwarf sighed. “Just... trust me, Marigold. Let’s not give people anything else to say about you. Especially not while we’re going to talk to a bunch Revered Mothers. Got that?” He gave Iron Bull a meaningful look. “And you need to back me up on this one, Tiny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bull said, before giving Geth a smirk that clearly said, ‘I’m just humouring him’. 

“I guess I’ll behave,” Gethrael teased, shifting on the saddle again. He turned a flirtatious glance on Bull, very much wondering if the Qunari would want him to ‘behave’, but he was already looking the other way. 

...

“There it is,” Varric said, struggling to get off of his horse. “That’s the Waking Sea.”

The Iron Bull knew that was true, but he thought - not for the first time - that Varric could pull whatever he wanted straight out of his ass and Gethrael would believe it without a second thought. Maybe it wasn’t fair to blame him, when he’d been brought up like he was, but it didn’t change the fact that he was going to get eviscerated in the world of politics. Bull knew it the instant he’d seen the Herald, and Varric seemed to see it too. 

Some of Leliana’s people had met up with them, and were now slowly gathering the horses. Since they were landing almost right in the city, getting horses on a ship was a waste of time. The scouts were staying camped here, and it seemed like they’d arranged the chartering of the boat as well. That was one impressive woman; Bull thought not for the first time. Spy to spy, she had her shit together. Kept on top of things.

“Just like last time, boys,” Krem said as he hefted his pack off his horse. “But hopefully without the storm.” The Chargers - or the ones that’d come - were all pretty merry about it, but they traveled well. Complainers didn’t usually last long unless they were very good sports with the teasing that invited. 

The Seeker, industrious as ever, had already gone off to find the captain of their ship with a few of the Inquisition soldiers. Bull could see it, anchored in the distance, and a pair of longboats tethered at the shore.

The view wasn’t anything special, so far as Iron Bull was concerned. He’d seen a good number of the Waking Sea’s shores. He was much more interested in watching the Herald; who, despite the pleasant look on his face, was doing a shit job at concealing his trepidation. Probably didn’t help that riding was clearly making him sore, but his perkiness was a little less genuine than usual.

“You came from the Marches, right?” Krem asked, giving Gethrael a nudge with his elbow. Good kid, really picked up on stuff. Made Bull proud every time. “Rough trip? Weather’s supposed to be good, this far West.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” the elf said with a touch of that joking bravado.

“Seasick, right?”

Gethrael shook his head, looking more sheepish with each passing moment. “I can’t really… swim.”

“Well, if it helps,” Krem said cheerfully, “doesn’t matter one way or the other much, if you’re separated from a ship in the middle of the sea. Not as though you can swim for land.”

 _Can’t fight and can’t swim,_ Bull thought tiredly, _and the Andrastians still think he’s some kind of chosen one._

This Chantry business was going to be a mess. Elves didn’t go over great in Orlais to start with, unless they were doing laundry and serving dinner. Iron Bull wasn’t about to argue with Cassandra, though; she was the kind of woman who had to see things for herself. The Qunari was just here to make sure the Herald was safe.

And maybe help him out with that clearly _active_ sex drive of his. That little conversation they’d had the other day had been one thing, but Bull was also very observant - part of being Ben-Hasserath. He saw the effect he had on Gethrael, caught every time he got the elf squirming. There were a lot of those. Bull was no stranger to getting people excited, intentionally and not. Seeing as they had something to do, there was no harm dragging this out a little; business first and fun later. 

With how the Qunari foresaw this going, Gethrael would probably be in need of a pick-me-up afterwards, anyways. 

They loaded into the longboats. Iron Bull watched with amusement as the Herald tried to stick with Dalish before Cassandra demanded he come to the other boat with her, Varric, and the Inquisition soldiers. Varric looked a little green already. Well, it’d be a long four days for him. 

Personally, Bull didn’t mind it. Boats always put him in mind of Seheron; and though that wasn’t great, it wasn’t all bad either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atish’ma - be at peace


	8. Chapter 8

The days on the ship were calm and uneventful; with fair weather and smooth sailing. Sleeping quarters were cramped, but sharing bunks didn’t bother Gethrael, who was the first to volunteer to take the floor. The Chargers and the Inquisition soldiers had no complaints either. It was basically just Varric that had things to say about it, though maybe it was good that Solas had chosen to stay behind and do more research on the rifts. 

Geth spent most of the daylight hours on the deck in the warm sun, chatting with Nuela or playing Wicked Grace - which he was proving to be exceptionally bad at - with Varric and the Chargers. 

Val Royeaux was like nothing he’d ever seen; all white and gold and shining like a beacon. Even as they crossed the first bridge into the city, Gethrael was craning his neck to take in the towering archways, the exquisitely detailed carvings that seemed to be on every surface. The railings were a delicate lattice edged in gold. There were plants in pots held on columns carved into statues, fountains with many jets of water that had bowls lined with coins, and rich silk draperies that waved in the wind. 

“This is really all just decoration?” Geth asked Varric, pointing at the potted plants as they passed. 

“Hm? Yeah.” The dwarf said, looking bemused. 

It was all incredibly opulent, and Geth couldn’t imagine ever needing or even wanting so much. However, it couldn’t be denied how beautiful it was. He turned to get a second look as they passed under one of the high arches, wondering how one built such a thing. When he turned back, it was to see a woman in a mask and richly embroidered gown clutching her hands to her chest and trembling. Before he could ask her what was the matter, she gave a shrill scream and stumbled over her skirts trying to run away. 

Startled and confused, Gethrael looked around at his companions. 

“It’s the horns,” Bull said with a lopsided grin. 

“... something tells me they know who we are,” Varric said, glancing up at Cassandra; who answered only with a quiet ‘hmn’.

The further they went, the more people there were. To Gethrael it already seemed an incredible number, all wearing masks and elaborate outfits of velvet and silk. They parted like water over rocks, many tripping over very impractical shoes as they did so. Scandalized muttering rushed through the crowd. The stares weren’t what made Gethrael’s skin prickle; though he’d already endured that amount of attention at Haven. Maybe he was getting used to it, though the thought of that was a little unsettling too. 

There were just so many of them. How they moved as one thing, how their skirts and coats were so large that they crushed into each other; hiding their bodies, how the blank masks covered their faces. It prodded at an irrational fear somewhere inside of Gethrael. Nothing about the people here was recognizably human, or even recognizably any natural creature. He knew of course that they were - he told himself that it was human nobles under all that - but his gut told him if they did approach, he’d probably jump away. 

“Easy there, Marigold,” Varric said, reaching up to give him a pat on the back. “Weird, aren’t they? Good reminder to not take it personally when these people call you a savage.”

“Why do they cover their faces?” Gethrael asked, still watching warily. 

“They’re bored,” The Iron Bull said from behind him. 

“... yeah, that’s a fair answer. They do this thing called The Grand Game - because they’re bored - which is mostly about lying and stabbing each other in the back. Josephine could explain it a lot better than I can.” Varric said. 

Gethrael broke his stride to turn all the way around so he could address Cassandra, who almost walked right into him. “Did you do that, Miss Cassandra?” He asked, trying to hide his smile. He was asking almost exclusively to see her reaction. 

She didn’t disappoint him, making a disgusted noise and rolling her eyes. “Might I remind you, I am from Nevarra.” She watched him start to grin, and her mouth twitched a little. “Though yes, one could call my family almost as ridiculous. Do not stop walking.”

“Someone get the Templars!” Shouted a man with a thick Orlesian accent from somewhere in the crowd. There were a few scattered shrieks of renewed fear. 

“Now, why would there be Templars here?” Varric said curiously. “I can’t imagine there’s many apostates running around.”

“I believe they may be protecting the people from... us,” Cassandra said, and though her voice always sounded sort of flatly disgusted, Gethrael thought he could hear extra disapproval. 

The elf watched the people drawing away from them - some were actually pretty funny in how dramatic they were, pressing themselves up against the stone walls of the bridge or shielding their faces with their arms. Surely he must be imagining the repulsed whispers of _elf_ and _knife ear_. Of course it was easy to feel paranoid in circumstances like these, especially when he knew there were no other elves around. 

Iron Bull’s massive hand reached in front of him, not so much pulling him as encouraging him to slow his step, and the Qunari put himself mostly in front of Gethrael. If nothing else, that blocked his view; and he was surprised how much that helped. The Inquisition soldiers they’d brought had certainly all come from military backgrounds - as Bull had pointed out, several were ex Templars themselves - and didn’t seem phased by any of this. Then again, it was Geth’s understanding that was expected of a soldier. 

At the end of the bridge, they reached a road with high white walls lined with statues, and again, Gethrael had never seen their like. Any old elvhen monuments he’d encountered were unspeakably old, sometimes worn almost to the point of being unrecognizable. The stone would be pockmarked, cracked and mossy. These were shining white like everything else, larger than life, with finely carved details that gave them an astonishing realism. 

“Varric, who are these statues of?”

It was Cassandra who answered him. “They depict the Avvar warrior Maferath - husband and betrayer of Andraste.”

“... then why would they make statues of him?” 

If she was going to reply, she was cut off by a shout from the plaza ahead. “Come, Val Royeaux, and hear me!”

“Hurry,” Cassandra urged, giving him a tap on the shoulder that was far closer to a punch. 

They emerged into an impossibly grand circular plaza full of people. There was so much to see that Gethrael had no idea where he should look: a strange tiny building in the centre surrounded by a moat, a second story of elaborate bridges and balconies, covered porches protected by fluted archways, and _so_ many people. 

His gaze was finally drawn to a small stage when the woman started to shout again. “Together we mourn our Divine - her beautiful heart silenced by treachery!” An elderly chantry mother stood in her robes and habit, hands outstretched. Cassandra grabbed Gethrael roughly by his elbow and pulled him through the crowd, the plates of her gauntlet pinching him even through his tunic. She might be a small woman, but she had no problem clearing a path; and as much as could be owed to her presence could probably also be owed to her indiscriminate shoving. 

As they reached the front of the crowd, the woman looked directly at the two of them. “You wonder what will happen to her murderer - wonder no more. Before us stands none other than the so called ‘Herald of Andraste’,” she pointed a trembling accusatory finger at Gethrael; and the crowd jumped back as though he’d just cast chain lightning, “claiming to rise where our beloved has fallen. We say this is a false prophet!”Cassandra stood steadfastly at his side, still tightly gripping his elbow. The hate and anger here was palpable, choking. He bumped back against Cassandra’s breastplate before he’d noticed that he’d taken a half step back. 

“The maker would send no _elf_ in our time of need!”

And there it was. Maybe Gethrael should be thankful for it, because it unstuck his tongue immediately. 

“I would never claim to be sent by your Maker,” he shouted back at the stage, glancing around at the people huddling away from him, searching for eye contact. No one wanted to look at him directly and the masks made it even harder. “And I definitely wouldn’t harm your Divine!” A storm of muttering kicked up in an instant, swirling around him like autumn leaves. “The Inquisition only wants to help,” he added insistently. He felt Iron Bull’s huge presence behind him, the staff on his back actually bumping into the Qunari’s chest; and Varric appeared at his side. 

“It’s true!” Cassandra finally released his arm to take a step forwards, “the Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it’s too late!”

Even from this distance, Gethrael could see this woman’s eyes bulging, her nostrils flaring angrily. She looked around wildly, then gave a triumphant cry of, “it’s already too late! The Templars have returned to Val Royeaux, to the Chantry - to make us safe once more!”

Geth spun in the direction she was looking in time to see a contingent of Templars in full armour marching into the plaza. There was another wave of gasps from the crowd; and he heard Cassandra’s hopeful murmur of, “Lord Seeker Lucius.” 

The crowd parted easily, some with prayers and cheers. Gethrael wondered if they would need to fight, especially with all of these people around. It seemed as though Varric might be thinking the same thing. The Templars at the Crossroads were not discerning about who they attacked, that was certain. Geth tried to figure out how many people he could catch in a shield at once as they marched closer. 

To his surprise, the Templars took the stage; boots thudding loudly on the wood. Without so much as a word, their leader - presumably the Lord Seeker - punched the elderly woman right in the mouth. The _crack_ made Gethrael jump, and he saw Varric grimace in his peripheral vision as the Chantry woman crumpled to the ground. The crowd screamed and gasped as though it were a singular beast. One of the other Templars immediately moved to attend her, and Lucius put out an arm to stop him. 

“Still yourself,” the Lord Seeker snapped, “she is beneath us.”

“I suppose you aren’t here for us, then,” Gethrael said, bemused. He hadn’t expected this, to say the least. Varric gave him what might have been a warning look. 

“As if there was any reason to,” Lucius scoffed. 

“Lord Seeker Lucius,” Cassandra said, her voice nearly a shout. “it is imperative we speak to-”

“Creating a heretical movement,” he yelled over her, his mouth twisting into a snarl, “raising up this elven puppet as Andraste’s prophet! You should be ashamed of yourself, Seeker Pentaghast.” He gestured grandly, as though he was enjoying being the centre of the spectacle. “You should all be ashamed!” Gethrael heard The Iron Bull’s low ‘ha’ from behind him. 

The Lord Seeker stepped to the very front of the stage, holding out both hands now. “The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! _You_ are the ones who failed!” His voice trembled with barely restrained anger, and Geth felt an inkling of why the mages might be rebelling. This man seemed dangerously insane. “You who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear - if you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. This elf is no Herald, no fated prophet. The only destiny that demands respect here is mine.” 

Gethrael looked to Varric, whose face was grim; then Cassandra, whose expression was still utter bafflement. Apparently neither of them were going to say anything, and this _elf_ was tired of being talked about this way. “You just came to call me an elf and make speeches?” He took a single step forwards and indicated the staff slung on his back, “you won’t even use your ‘righteous sword’? I am a mage, too, you know,” he said, a little surprised by his own taunt. The gathered Orlesians seemed shocked into silence, huddled together in their lace and silks, clutching their skirts. 

Varric hissed something under his breath, but was cut off by Lucius’ shouting. “I came to see what frightens old women so - and to laugh.” Gethrael stood his ground, and though he didn’t want to break his gaze from the Lord Seeker, he was still aware of the old woman crumpled on the stage. Had she moved? The blow may have even killed her. 

“What if he really was sent by the Maker?” One of the Templars asked. It was the same one that’d wanted to attend the Chantry woman. 

“Silence,” the Lord Seeker looked furious. “We are called to a higher purpose, do not question it. It is I who will make the Templar order a power that stands alone against the void. We deserve recognition. Independence.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Gethrael, but the crowd did not react as they had before for the Chantry woman. “You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition _less_ than nothing! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection, and the Herald is unworthy of my blade. Templars-” he raised a hand, seemingly to call them to attention, “we march.”

Geth did not move or take his eyes off of them as they marched from the stage, the stamping of their armoured boots in unison making it tremble. 

“Charming fellow,” he heard Varric mutter. Around them the spell on those gathered started to break as the Templars reached the entrance of the courtyard, the rustling and whispers starting. They drew back still further from Gethrael, as though the crowd was taking a deep breath. 

“Has he gone mad?” Cassandra said in apparent disbelief. 

“Yeah,” Iron Bull grunted. 

“Let’s hope we have better options- Marigold, what’re you-”

Gethrael climbed up on the stage without bothering to go around to the steps. “Excuse me, I’m a spirit healer,” he said softly, and the Sisters turned to him as though he was a dangerous wild animal. “I could have a look-”

“You’ve done enough!” the old woman spat, recoiling from him in abject horror. Blood poured from her broken nose to obscure most of her face and spatter on her white robe. Her eyes were wide and wild as she pushed herself desperately back towards her attendants. “You will not touch me with your unholy heathen magic!”

Gethrael froze, his stomach flipping at her terror more than her words. _No one could meet you and think you meant harm,_ Josephine had said. 

He felt a tug on the back of his armour, then he was hefted up off of the stage by it; like a wolf pup by its scruff. “C’mon,” Iron Bull said, “let’s get out of here.” When he was set back down, Gethrael immediately followed Cassandra and Varric to one of the courtyard’s many exits. He was just now noticing how many; this place was dizzying. 

“Why is everyone so afraid of me?” He asked Varric, feeling a little like he was being squeezed to death. There was such a pressure in his throat and head. 

“... because you’re different,” Varric sounded very tired. “There’s the Herald thing, of course - the glowing hand, the falling out of a hole in the sky - but there’s also the ears, and the,” he tapped below his left eye, where Gethrael’s vallaslin was. “Then there’s the mage thing. That’s enough all by itself for a lot of good Andrastians.”

“I don’t-”

“My Lord Herald,” a well-dressed and straight backed young man stepped in front of them, hands behind his back. Gethrael was far from an expert, but it seemed like this might not be one of the noble socialites. This man was doing a job of some kind. Cassandra looked rather like she wanted to push him out of the way as he held out a thick, wax sealed envelope. “Imperial Enchanter Vivienne extends her invitation to a salon tomorrow night at the Ghislain Estate. She would be most honoured by your attendance.” 

Cassandra’s grunt of disgust was nearly a growl, but Varric stepped forwards with a sidelong look at her and took the envelope. “We’ll be there.”

“Certainly not!” The Seeker cried.

Varric ignored her, tucking the invitation inside his coat. “Thank you.”

As the young man hurried away, Cassandra turned her furious gaze on Varric. “We are not here to entertain this... waste of time.”

“We’re here to make allies, Seeker,” the dwarf said as patiently as if he were talking to a child. “You think we can afford to scorn the Imperial Enchanter? With how the Templars just treated us, this is the exact kind of ally we need.”

“Not likely it fell into our laps by accident, either,” Iron Bull muttered. 

“Agreed. But we can’t pass it up. You want people to take the Inquisition seriously, you’re going to have to deal with Orlais - pretty sure that’s Ruffles’ whole job description.”

“And not ours,” Cassandra was practically baring her teeth. 

“Not eager to take out your family charts, Miss Cassandra?” Gethrael was unable to resist teasing her, and it was worth the utter repulsion on her face. 

“I’ll feed myself to a wyvern first,” she scowled. 

“Doubt this woman will wait for you to get your ambassador,” Iron Bull said, “probably wants you off balance. Very Orlesian.”

“Look, Seeker,” Varric said before she could protest again, “All I’m saying is, I’m not defending you when we get back and they find out what you refused. ‘I told her,’ I’ll say, ‘but you know how stubborn-”

“ _You_ will take him then,”

“All you had to do was ask,” the dwarf said, holding up both hands. “It’ll be much easier without you around offending people anyways.”

She seemed to have no response to that. 

“What’s a salon about - a party?” Gethrael said, hardly even able to conceive of what these people might call a party, seeing the lavish display they put out on the streets. 

“Yeah,” it was Iron Bull that answered him, and the Qunari sounded a little tired too. “Lot of peacocking, lot of lying.”

“This could be an assassination attempt,” Cassandra said, arms crossed over her breastplate. 

“They are pretty popular,” Bull grunted, “but I doubt anyone will bother if I’m around.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, “and they love me at those things.”

“More likely someone’s taking a risk on the Inquisition in hopes of political gain later,” Varric said thoughtfully, “but the Inquisition really needs that right now.” He looked between the three of them, and when he was met with nods, he looked back at Bull. “You know, I wouldn’t have guessed a Qunari would go over well.”

“Nah; it’s all about the novelty,” Iron Bull said with one of his half smiles. “They’ve never seen one of us before - and they like the mercenary stories. Living vicariously. Hah.” His smile widened into a telling grin. “I get a lot of propositions, too.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra looked offended, to say the least. 

“I can understand that,” Gethrael said, as thickly flirtatious as he could manage. There was a lot around to distract him - he saw down a side street as they walked and his stomach swooped a little with the shock of seeing how long it was, how bustling with people. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how huge the whole city must be, if this was one street. 

“You know, I’m not sure if they’ll even let us in wearing these clothes,” Varric said, “and if they do... I mean, from what I know of Orlesians, we might lose more favour than we gain.”

“You’re probably right,” Iron Bull said, looking thoroughly amused, “but if you’re going shopping, I’ll see you back at camp. Got a few good contacts here. Might find out something worthwhile.”

“I will be visiting the Chantries,” Cassandra said, so abruptly that she nearly interrupted Bull. “There may be some loyal Templars remaining, or sympathetic Revered Mothers. Mother Hevara does not represent all of their voices.”

“And you say a salon’s a waste of time?” Varric chuckled. “Alright then, Seeker.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. 

Somehow, after they parted ways, Gethrael felt the stares more. He hadn’t been hiding behind Iron Bull, but he was starting to think the Qunari blocked more than he’d realized. As they moved more into the merchants’ quarter, the nature of the attention seemed to change. There was less fear, and more furtive, suspicious glances. That was something Gethrael was well used to, though. Humans almost always regarded the Dalish that way. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it,” Varric said as they walked, “but you remind me of a friend from Kirkwall. Dalish, like you; same sunny disposition. You two would probably get along. You were Keeper’s First, right?” Gethrael nodded. “Yeah, so was she. Didn’t work out for her, either.” 

Geth was a little afraid to ask why, despite there being many possible reasons. “Why are you telling me this now?” He asked, a slight smile pulling at his lips - this was how his Keeper always liked to open stories that ended in some way like ‘and her idiocy caused half of her clan to die that winter, this is why you need to pay better attention,’ after he made some mistake. 

“It’s the look on your face,” Varric said, “Trying to figure out the city. Not too different from when I first brought her into the Kirkwall alienage. You Dalish don’t get to see much; do you?”

“Not like this, no,” Gethrael said, bemused. There was a sudden shrill burst of laughter, and he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. When he turned to look, it was to see a huddle of masked women that seemed to giggling over a story one of them was telling. 

“Come here, Marigold,” Varric said kindly, indicting a nearby shop - or Gethrael presumed it was a shop, all of the buildings were so ornate and he saw no signage on most of them. There was no shortage of plaques, though, each one increasingly strange; enough so that Geth was beginning to doubt he understood what plaques were used for. 

The owner of the first shop did not mince words about only selling garments made to fit _humans_ , but the second at least directed them to a dwarven tailor. It took the better part of an hour to find the address, though it might not have taken so long if Varric didn’t pull him around a corner to a quiet spot and insist they stop for a few moments. 

“Just close your eyes a minute. I’m starting to lose you.”

Gethrael had no idea what he was talking about, but when they went back onto the street; everything somehow seemed much less bright and loud. 

The dwarven tailor welcomed them and quickly produced a number of fine coats for Varric (‘And some breeches, too, something I can wear more than once,’) which he tried on while the two dwarves chatted. Geth knew nothing whatsoever of fashion, but helped choose a dark blue jacket that he thought looked quite nice. 

“Not sure what to suggest for your friend here,” the dwarf said, though it was not unkindly. “I know which shops stock for elves, but... well, it’ll be nothing near suitable for a salon. Nicest things they’ll have would be work uniforms for the noble estates. A lady can usually fit into a petite gown alright, but with a man the bust starts a clear four inches smaller than a human’s. And no time for custom tailoring.” He looked apologetic, to say the least; and Varric waved him off with a sigh. 

“Well - it’s already been a long day. Let’s go get lunch.” 

They’d gotten maybe a dozen yards from the tailor’s door when there was a sharp whistle past Gethrael’s ear. Varric grabbed his elbow and wrenched him to the side, but it seemed like it would’ve missed him anyways. 

“Andraste’s flaming-” Varric’s hand was already going to his crossbow, but he stopped short, staring at where the arrow stuck quivering in a signpost. “There’s a message on it.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I want to help, and I can bring everyone,” Varric reread one of the lines from the message with a raised brow. “Well, what would you wager that the Seeker would want to ignore this?”

“I don’t think I’d bet against that,” Gethrael said cheerfully, thoroughly enjoying a plate of honeyed carrots and tiny potatoes with unfamiliar spices on them. “This is really good.” He’d been feeling a little faint, but now that they were eating he was already observing the passers-by again with interest. 

“Not sure how you’re even eating something that sweet,” Varric muttered, his eyes still on the note, “everything’s all honey and syrup and sugar here. Always thought that was an exaggeration.” He hadn’t eaten much of his lunch; and wasn’t even bothering to hold his fork any more. “Hey - maybe I’m crazy, but one of these sketches could be this cafe.” He pushed the paper towards Geth, who leaned over the table and tilted his head trying to make sense of the drawings. “Bottom left corner.”

“... I don’t know that it looks like much of anything to me,” Gethrael said with a sheepish smile. 

“You don’t think that,” Varric pointed at a squiggly shape with horns, “is that ‘Madame Snippy Snaps’ thing over there?” He gestured towards the mounted Dragon’s head on the wall. 

Gethrael shrugged, looking around the - was this a room? Half of it was open to the outside, was it still considered one? This question distracted him so much that it took him a moment to realize there was a red handkerchief on the ground, kicked slightly under a table. Ah, red things. He went over and picked it up, unbothered by the looks some of the other patrons gave him. 

“What’ve you got?” Varric said, turning around in his seat as Geth retrieved the piece of parchment that fell out of the hanky. The elf glanced over both sides of the paper, then handed it to him as he sat back down. 

“The message is in red... I don’t think it’s from the same person, though?”

“Yeah. The hand’s totally different, and I don’t see any little doodles,” Varric held up the note to take a better look at it. “‘Saw those who asked about the Herald enter the third passage.’ Hmn,” he looked over the paper to make eye contact with Gethrael. “Two more of these? Might as well.”

They headed for the docks once they were finished with lunch, since they could agree there was no ambiguity about that. The red handkerchief stood out easily among the dirty grays and browns of discarded nets and waterlogged barrels. The key that tumbled out almost slipped through the boards of the dock, but Gethrael caught it in time. That left a spot that they could only guess was on the upper terraces; though they hadn’t noticed any ways to access that area that didn’t look like private gardens. 

With that in mind, they went back to wandering around the market, looking for other shops they could try. 

“Excuse me, are you the Herald of Andraste?” 

Gethrael turned to see an Orlesian woman, reaching out a lace-gloved hand as though she was poised to tap him on the arm. 

“People do call me that,” Geth gave a confused attempt at a smile. The masks were still unnerving to him, and he tried to figure out where to look on her metal face when he couldn’t find her eyes under the eyeholes. How did these people see?

“The Inquisition is trying to close the hole in the sky?”

“Yes, we are,” he said with a little more confidence. 

“I want to help,” she started excitedly, then added an insistent, “your people in Haven will need food and supplies. If you will have me, I can have everything arranged!”

“Oh,” Gethrael wasn’t exactly sure how to deal with even just the fawning, never mind people offering their services. “Varric, is that alright?” He asked, turning to the dwarf. 

Varric chuckled. “I don’t think she’s asking me, Marigold,” he said coaxingly, “she’s asking you.”

“Apologies, but he _is_ -”

“-the Herald of Andraste. I get it,” Varric held up both hands in surrender and gave her a smile. He looked up at Gethrael. “She’s right, we don’t have enough supply lines and there’s more people coming in by the day. If you want to invite her, do it.”

Geth looked between them, but when Varric said nothing more, he looked back at the Orlesian woman’s metal mask and gave her a hesitant grin. “Come, then. We need good people.”

“Well now, I don’t know if I’m that,” she said with a little giggle, “but I’d like to find out. I’ll prepare to leave right away. Is there... could I help you somehow while you’re in Val Royeaux?” She asked, seemingly a little abashed that she hadn’t thought of it earlier. 

“Glad you asked - there is something we’re having a bit of trouble with,” Varric said, “we got invited to one of those fancy parties you Orlesians like so much. You know where we can get something for an elf to wear?”

“Oh, do I!” She exclaimed, “there is a lovely shop that serves the more, ah, well-to-do elves in the city. The owner is a friend of my husband’s, please give him my name-” she cut herself off with a gasp, “Maker! I haven’t told you my name!”

Her name was Belle, and she spent several minutes giving them detailed directions to the shop before gathering up her skirts and bustling away. 

“Well. That worked out,” Varric said, bemused. “Think the Seeker will still have something to complain about?”

“Let’s just not tell her,” Gethrael said, fighting his grin. 

“I hope our new friend beats us back to Haven, then. Wouldn’t that be a treat.”

As Belle promised, they were welcomed happily into the shop and presented with plenty to choose from. Varric offered little input, leaving Gethrael more or less at the mercy of the elven shopkeeper. He personally had no opinion other than these being the most uncomfortable and complicated clothes he’d ever worn. He chose something in green and gold, though he was so startled by seeing his reflection - especially the whole of it, which he certainly hadn’t seen before - that he really didn’t know if he looked good or not. 

“You look lovely, dear,” the shopkeeper insisted in her heavy Orlesian accent, “just do something nicer with your hair! You could leave it part down - they usually love long hair on boys,” she added with a giggle. Whatever that meant?

It was dusk by the time Gethrael and Varric were finished, and Geth was as tired as he’d be if he walked all the way through last night. He hadn’t the slightest idea why, they hadn’t walked that much at all; and he’d eaten proper meals. 

When Varric suddenly stopped walking, it took Geth a few steps to even notice. The dwarf stood at the foot of a flight of stairs, arms crossed over his chest and staring at the iron gate blocking the upper terrace. His gaze traced along the walkway above, and his hand came up to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “Hey, Marigold? Keep watch for me.”

Gethrael cocked his head in question, but Varric was already moving up the stairs with surprising speed and stealth. It wasn’t until he knelt in front of the lock that the elf realized what he was doing, and nearly spun in a circle looking around; nervous he’d missed something already. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone all that close to them, and no one seemed to have noticed 

“Shit!” Varric hissed, and then raised his voice just a little. “Get up here.”

With a last glance around, Gethrael turned and hurried up the stairs. The dwarf has a sour look on his face; and though the gate was ajar it definitely wasn’t open. 

“It’s chained up top. I can’t fit,” Varric said, “but I think you can... drop your staff.”

“We don’t even know where the red thing is,” Geth was unslinging his staff even as he said it. 

“I’ve been thinking about it while we were walking around,” the dwarf said, “and from that little doodle I think it’s right over there.” He pointed to a tower a little ways along the terrace, “the one at the docks was easy to see. If I’m right you can just go grab it.”

“And if you’re not?” Gethrael said, giving the gate a dubious look. He wasn’t sure that he could fit at all. 

“We’ll figure it out when we get there. Hurry up!”

Geth had never been much good at anything involving being stealthy, but for a male elf he was considered small and that was a benefit here. He could hear the chain straining as he wiggled through, and the frame of the gate bit into his ribs. He exhaled as much as he could and held onto the bars for leverage, pulling himself to the other side, and stared at Varric for a moment before the dwarf pointed again towards the tower down the walkway. 

“ _Get moving!_ ”

Gethrael scrambled down the narrow walkway as quickly as he could. Though he’d never been a nervous person, any elf was rightly afraid of what might happen to them if they were caught somewhere they shouldn’t be; so he wasn’t wasting any time. It was a little more than 20 yards, and when he reached the end of the terrace he spun all the way around, looking wildly. He didn’t see it. What should he do - just go back?

Then something red caught his eye. That must be it, tossed on the ground next to a planter. He snatched it, holding it up triumphantly for Varric to see, but just got a sharp ‘get back here’ motioned at him. 

Of course. He hurried back, feeling as though at any moment a door or window would fly open and someone would call for a guard. Varric reached through the gap in the gate to grab his arm and unceremoniously yanked him through; not letting go of him until they were at the bottom of the stairs and around the corner.

“Let’s have a look,” the dwarf held his hand out, wrinkling his nose as he took the red thing, which was apparently not another handkerchief. “Is this - ah, it’s a giant sock. Right.” 

Something about Varric’s face made Gethrael laugh, though he was buzzing with adrenaline and that may have something to do with it too. A little shaking made a scrap of paper flutter out, and Geth leaned over Varric to read it with him. There were two very different scripts - a highly decorative and flourishing one that the elf couldn’t really read (or at least not quickly), and a scratchy laboured hand. The latter said ‘Herald go at time. Praise Andrast.’

... at what time?

“Shit - three bells. That’s coming up any minute now. We better get moving.”

...

The key from the docks slid in easily, opening the door with a click that seemed incredibly loud. Varric and Gethrael glanced at each other, almost surprised that it worked. 

A golden-masked Orlesian nobleman stood alone in the courtyard, almost as though he was waiting for them, Varric muttered something like, ‘oh, great,’ and hauled Bianca over his shoulder. 

“Herald of Andraste!” The man crowed, and it occurred even to Gethrael that this was looking like some kind of trap. “How much did you expend to discovered? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably.” 

Maybe _not_ a trap. 

“What are you talking about?” Geth said, bemused. “I don’t know who you are.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Varric squinting in confusion, his crossbow still half in its strap. 

“You do not fool me!” With a dramatic flourish, the Orlesian summoned a mote of fire, his posture shifting to a more aggressive one. “I am far too important for this to be an accident.”

“Just say ‘wot’!” A lady’s voice, definitely not Orlesian. Gethrael glanced around but didn’t see anyone. 

“What is th-“ 

He was interrupted by the shaft of an arrow protruding from the eyehole of his mask, and fell dead. Varric muttered something about Andraste‘s female parts, almost reverently. 

“Ugh! Squishy one, but you heard me, right?” A blonde elf girl with a bow strolled out of the shadows, snickering. “Just say what? Rich tits always try for more than they deserve. Blah blah blah, _obey me_...” she sneered, wandering over to the corpse. She grabbed hold of her arrow, braced her foot on its shoulder, and yanked; spraying blood up her bare shin. “Blergh!” She held the arrow between two fingers like it was the most disgusting thing she’d ever seen. A bit of gore dripped from the arrowhead to the cobbles. 

“That was quite the shot,” Varric said conversationally. 

“Yeah, whatever,” the girl muttered as she tucked the arrow back in her quiver, not even looking at him and walking right up to Gethrael. She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced him up and down with a slowly curling lip. She gave a loud, disdainful sniff. “Aaaand you’re an elf. Blimey, tattoo and everything.” 

Gethrael had been fighting a smile since she appeared, but was a little taken aback by how she’d said that. It wasn’t what he expected to hear from one of The People, certainly. “But you’re _also_ -“ 

“I mean, it’s all good, innit?” She interrupted, waving her hands. “The important thing is: you glow? You’re the herald thingy?” 

“I... what?” Geth blinked at her, his smile widening. Then his hand - a constant little pinch of discomfort he’d gotten very good at ignoring - suddenly brought itself back to the forefront of his awareness with a little twinge. Oh! “Sure, why not?” He said, outright grinning at her now. “I glow.”

“Hey, you mind telling us what’s going on?” Varric said, stepping forwards so his shoulder brushed against Geth. “Who is this guy?” He nudged at the noble with his boot. 

“Pfft, no idea. I don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should take a look at ‘im.”

“Who’re your people?” Gethrael asked curiously. 

The elf girl shrugged. She had the shortest and most uneven bangs that Geth had ever seen, and an upturned nose. Her accent made it clear she wasn’t from Orlais. “You know. People people.” She suddenly whipped around, looking up the stairs at the other end of the courtyard. Gethrael didn’t hear anything, but she clearly did. She turned back to face him, a huge grin on her face that revealed a prominent gap between her two front teeth; and grabbed him roughly by the biceps. “My name’s Sera, this is cover - get round it.” She steered him a few steps back, to a decorative column in the courtyard. “Y’know, for the re-enforcements,” Geth could hear them now, footfalls echoing on the flagstone. Clearly Varric could too, he had Bianca at the ready. “Don’t worry, someone tipped me to their equipment shed,” Sera continued, giggling in delight as she readied her bow and nocked an arrow, “they’ve got no breeches!”

Half a dozen guardsmen ran around the corner, and they actually didn’t have any breeches on. They still had swords though. Sera let out a screech of laughter as she took the first one through the throat. 

“Andraste’s tits, you could’ve taken their swords,” Varric grumbled, sending a pair of bolts to punch through a guard’s breastplate. 

By then Gethrael managed to get his staff in his hands, and the storm rushed through him and out of him. The tingling started deep in his belly and went to the very tips of his fingers as lighting cracked and leapt from him to the first guard; then the next, and the next. Then he was laughing too, his heart pounding with adrenaline. 

“Ha! No breeches!” Sera cackled like a madwoman, taking advantage of the momentary paralysis to take another two in rapid succession. Another got a bolt to the meat of his exposed thigh and fell with a howl of pain. Geth slung sparks at him until he stopped screaming, convulsed on the ground, and lay still. 

Gethrael saw the last one starting to run, but before he could say or do anything; both Varric and Sera were taking aim. He didn’t make it to the edge of the courtyard. 

“Friends really came through with that tip, there. _No breeches_!” Sera slung her bow back on her back, turning back to face him. “So, Herald of Andraste. You’re a strange one,” she planted her hands on her skinny hips, eying him shrewdly. “I wanna join.”

Geth blinked at her, still grinning and getting his breath back from the fight. “You... what, the Inquisition?”

“Yeah, dummy,” she cocked her head at him, “what else?”

“Maybe tell us what’s going on here, first,” Varric said, walking over to be next to Gethrael again, Bianca resting casually on his shoulder. “Who’re these friends of yours?”

Sera rolled her eyes and gave a huff that puffed out her cheeks. “Look - it’s like this: I sent you a note to look for things my friends left. Brought you here, showed you the bad guy, n’ you met me. That’s the Friends of Red Jenny.”

“Are you Red Jenny?” Geth said, realizing only now that her tunic was red, like the things they’d been looking for earlier. Wow, that made sense. 

She curled her lip at him and tilted her head again. “Well, no. Everybody is, n’ nobody is. It lets little people, ‘friends’, help each other out and stick it to nobles. So here, in your face, I’m Sera. ‘The friends of red Jenny’ are sort of out there,” she waved her hands around, back to her big smile. “I used them to help you. Plus arrows.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Varric said, “as much as I, personally, can get behind the idea of sticking it to some nobles; I’m not sure if that’s going to help the Inquisition.”

“Didn’t ask you,” Sera scoffed, “you’re not the glowy one, are you?” 

“No, I’m not,” the dwarf said, bemused. 

She pivoted back to Gethrael. “Ok, you important people are all up here, shovin’ your cods around, all I crush you, n’ crush you,” she gestured wildly, and beamed as Geth couldn’t stop himself from giggling. “ _Ooh_ , crush you!” She added in a falsetto, making wet kissing noises as Gethrael laughed. That only seemed to encourage her, and she emphatically pointed at the corpse of the nobleman again. “Then you’ve got these big knives - or is he one of the little knives, just flailing around with his... little knife,” Geth snickered, and Sera thoughtfully added, “My point is; what’s he brought down by? Some houseboy he’s kicked around too many times.”

“So you’re a spy,” Gethrael said, feeling rather clever. 

“Ha, no,” Sera snorted, “I’m not knivey shivdark.. but while you’re listening up there, you’ve got to listen down here too. Or you risk your breeches! Like those guards. I stole their-“ she interrupted herself, puffing out her cheeks again, “... look, do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal. Don’t you?”

“This one wouldn’t mind losing his clothes,” Varric teased, a hand on his chin again as he looked at Sera, taking a measure of her. “He’d probably thank you. But, point taken.”

Geth gave a sheepish grin, but didn’t argue. “... can I invite her, or will this one get me in trouble?”

“You’re the Herald, Marigold. No one’s going to stop you.”

“I am _really_ good at gettin’ people in trouble, though,” Sera said, like this was her best quality. Gethrael laughed. 

“Alright - ma’vhalla, Sera.”

“Eugh, you are really elfy though; aren’t you?” She curled her lip in disgust. “I don’t stand for none of that crap, right? I’m not a ‘real proper elf’, or whatever, if you’ve got a problem with that. I’ll have it out right now.” She pointed emphatically at the ground between them like they were going to fight. 

What? “Ir abe- sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, or anything.”

“He’s not like that,” Varric said cheerfully. 

“Right then, Herald,” Sera was looking at him now like he smelled very bad, “I’ll give you a chance, but don’t you go pushing that stuck up elf tripe on me.”

“I can promise I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Gethrael joked, “but you have to promise me not to call me ‘Herald’. My name is Gethrael; or just Geth. I’d prefer that.” Few enough people were using his name at all that ‘Geth’ seemed a lot to hope for. 

Her grin was suddenly back. “Yeah! So I’m in?”

Gethrael nodded, and Sera gave a single excited clap. “Yes! Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your - say, I’ve got all these extra breeches. You’ve got merchants that buy all that pish, yeah?” She walked a few steps to a pile of boxes and barrels, kicking over a burlap sack. Sure enough, a pile of guardsmen’s breeches spilled out, and Sera gestured to them as though presenting them proudly. 

Varric chuckled. “Not going be worth much. Look, we’ve got to get back to camp either way, Marigold. Our friends are going to start thinking I got you kidnapped or something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma’vhalla - I welcome you


	10. Chapter 10

“Who is this woman?” Cassandra asked suspiciously, almost the moment they were in earshot. 

“Ha! Guess ‘woman’ is better than ‘elf’, innit?” Sera nudged Gethrael with a very pointy elbow. 

“This is Sera,” Varric said, with a look that made it clear he was looking forwards to seeing them interact. 

“That’s right. Came to be a part of your whole hairy-eyeball thing.”

“Hairy... eyeball thing,” Cassandra repeated incredulously, and Geth had to press his lips tightly together to keep himself from laughing. 

“With the sword and the hair and the eye,” Sera pointed at Cassandra’s breastplate, “you know, what you’ve got on your tits.”

Gethrael expected her to be offended; especially considering how she’d reacted when he’d been outside of his tent naked. He was very wrong about why she was offended. “The eye is _flaming_!”

Sera snorted. “Shoulda got a better artist, then. Thought she was a redhead.”

“She was,” Cassandra conceded, and Geth saw the smallest hint of a smile. He had no idea what that was about, but Sera cackled. 

“Sera here is a crack shot,” Varric said helpfully. 

“And I’ll bring Friends!” She piped up, as if only just remembering this, “the Friends of Red Jenny. The Herald already said I could come along.”

“Did he,” Cassandra levelled Gethrael with a look that he found utterly unreadable. “Very well. We shall find somewhere for you to sleep.”

“Dalish and Skinner can double up, Seeker,” Krem said, a few yards away. He looked a bit embarrassed as they all turned to look at him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to listen in.”

“I think that you did,” Cassandra said, “but I also think it is because you’re a very good Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Ser,” Krem looked very proud in spite of himself. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t storm the city trying to find us as soon as the sun went down. You feeling okay?” Varric teased, “you that afraid of a little shopping?”

“I was not about to enter every Maker-forsaken dress shop in the city,” Cassandra’s face twitched, and her scowl came back. 

“What d’you want with a dress?” Sera snorted, looking between Varric and Gethrael, “that what you’re into? No shame innit, I suppose. I won’t tell.”

“Ha. We needed something suitable for one of these fancy Orlesian parties,” Varric said, shaking his head, “and let me tell you, would’ve been way easier to put the Herald in a dress.”

Gethrael laughed, but Cassandra looked insulted. “And here I thought you did not want a scandal,” she said stiffly. 

“The high-ups love that pish,” Sera waved her hand dismissively. “If you told me you were going to Lord Whatsisname - ugh, don’t remember, would know it if I heard it - but he _loves_ dressing up boy elves as girls. It’s a whole thing. Oh; and there’s Lady Olette, she’s pretty well known for having her servants all tarted up, and you can’t tell what is which.” She shrugged, “all kinds of perverts, right?”

Cassandra’s mouth had actually fallen open. “You... you are joking.”

“Well,” Varric said, “don’t know about all that, but I think I believe it; seeing as the only nice clothes made to fit an elf are meant for courtesans.”

 _That_ was it!

“Everything the tailor said makes a lot more sense now,” Gethrael said, thoroughly amused, “I wasn’t sure what she was getting at.” Sera started laughing again. 

“Maker,” Cassandra put a hand to her forehead, “I cannot believe you’ve been... debased in this way. This will not happen in my presence.”

Geth had been resisting laughter since Sera started, but that got him chuckling. “I don’t care, you know. It’s better than ‘knife-ear’.” 

“Good, everyone’s here,” The Iron Bull came over, and Geth wondered how he could’ve missed seeing the huge Qunari before now. The horns were easy to pick out. “And who’s this?”

“Whoa,” it was Sera’s turn to gape, and she actually stepped back a bit. “Wow, never met one of you.”

“I get that a lot,” Bull said, seeming totally unbothered, “The Iron Bull, and over there’s my Chargers - well, some of ‘em.”

“M’Sera. Also Red Jenny, but tired of ‘splaining that right now.”

“Good enough,” Bull crossed his arms over his chest, “thought you might want to know what my contact told me.” When Cassandra gave him a suspicious look, he levelled her with a very pointed one. “I told you, I’m sharing everything I know with the Inquisition.”

“Then do so,” the Seeker said. 

“The Empress’ old flame is stirring shit up in the court - an elf named Briala, you’ve probably heard of her.”

“I coulda told you that,” Sera piped up. 

“... and apparently she’s got a spy network of elf servants across Orlais,” Bull continued, “more than anyone thought. They have some way of getting around quick that my contact doesn’t know yet, but there’s some suspicion she’s drawing out the civil war.”

“Perhaps to make a grab for power herself,” Cassandra said thoughtfully. 

“Hah, what else?”

“What a stinking pile of rubbish,” Sera huffed. “No, not you - making a war for your own self, not giving a limp dick how many people die for it. S’all crap.”

“Yeah, and that’s wars for ya,” Bull said with a tight half-smile. “Hey, you guys find something to wear?” It was an obvious shift in topic, but Gethrael welcomed it if only because he’d barely been able to follow the other one. 

“Picking it up tomorrow morning,” Varric said, “there’s always a few alterations you need on the ready made stuff - right Cassandra?” 

“I would not know,” she scoffed, looking disgusted. 

...

Though Gethrael offered to go with him, Varric went back into the city alone to pick up their clothes in the morning. 

“The Herald of Andraste draws a lot of attention, it’ll be faster if you stay here,” the dwarf said. “No one’s gonna bother with me.”

“Where ya going?” Sera flopped down next to him by the fire. “Not the Lord Seeker, I s’pose,” she gave a derisive snort. “Bet he’s got a portrait taller n’he is. There’s your first clue to a total arse. Fact!”

Geth chuckled with her. “No, I don’t think he’s inviting me to anything. That’d make things much easier.”

“Well, who is it then? M’not guessing.”

“Madame...” it took him a moment, he still wasn’t wonderful with names and yesterday was a blur. “Vivienne, I think. She’s the First Enchanter - no, the _Imperial_ Enchanter.” First Enchanter was a position within the Circle, he thought. Maybe. 

Sera snorted again and smirked. “Oh, her. She’s not.”

“She’s not... what?”

“Not Imperial Enchanter! Not now, anyways. She still sign her stuff like that? Blimey, there’s an ego,” when she saw he was still looking curiously at her, she continued, “Lost the job to some weirdo what just walked in one day. Ha, mad about that, I bet.” Sera looked Gethrael up and down, then punched him in the shoulder. “Think I’d just go like that. Be really funny, right? And she says, what; ‘how dare you not dress up for my dumb party’? Eat my underpants.”

That did get Gethrael snickering. “Is this not dressed up enough for you? There’s a lot _less_ clothing I could wear.” She shrieked in delight, as though she hadn’t expected him to make a joke back. “Varric said we wouldn’t get in, though... and I think we need all the help we can get.”

“Boring,” Sera stuck her tongue out. 

Geth had no idea why, but something about that made him feel suddenly wistful, and he smiled at her. “It’s nice to have another elf around, you know.”

“Eugh,” she curled her lip in an immediate scowl, “not like that; why’ve you got to go and ruin everything.”

“I’m... sorry?” Gethrael was taken aback, and starting to wonder why all of the elves that joined the Inquisition - Nuela not included - were so hard to talk to. “What’s wrong with being an elf?” With as confused as he was, he was asking it very genuinely. 

“Maybe you’re alright,” Sera said, looking like she might be sorry she said it, “you can’t help bein’ an elf. But most elves are too... elfy.” She went right back to her scowl, “blah blah, ‘never be as good as we were’. Well, who’s we? I’m doing alright.” She rolled her eyes, slumping against the supply crate behind her. “Stupid. N’that’s why I’m not a good elf, or whatever.”

Solas immediately came to mind, and that honestly did help Geth understand what she meant. “... I’ve met elves like that. It isn’t for me, either.” He watched the fire flicker for a moment. Even when not in prayer he found a hearth a great source of comfort. 

“Isn’ that what you Dalish _do_ , though?”

“You can uphold tradition and still lead a new life,” Gethrael said, “there’s value in tradition, and I always loved hearing my Keeper tell the old stories.”

“S’just dusty old crap.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, and brought up his knees so he could rest his arms on them. “But it’s good to respect history. You can still practice the old ways and move forwards; everything does... you know? Many of The People are just like you say, though. It isn’t about preserving our culture. It’s about mourning it, and being angry. I never liked being angry.”

Sera wrinkled her nose at him. “Ugh, you’re almost talking sense. You’d better cut that out.”

Gethrael rested his chin on his arm, looking into the fire again. “Some would say I’m ‘not a good elf’ either, because I think like that,” he smiled over at Sera. “I was my clan’s First, which means next to be Keeper, and nearly ten years ago they decided I wasn’t right for it.”

“Well that’s just lucky,” Sera snorted, “who wants to fuss around and tell crummy old stories, n’boss people around.”

“You’re right, actually,” he grinned at her, though he didn’t bother lifting his head. “I never did want to.”

“Not such a bad sort of elf, you know,” she grinned right back at him, even wider. “You, I mean.”

“Oh, you approve?” Geth said teasingly. “Kind of you.”

“Shut it!” Sera squealed; swatting at him, “usually just don’t bother with elves, but you’re special - glowy - so gave it a shot. This... ‘Herald of Andraste’ stuff, who knows if it’s true or not? You probably don’t believe it,” Gethrael shook his head incrementally, “ugh, figured. Still, you popped out of a rift, right? And now you glow. All that matters is you can _maybe_ fix that thing.” She twisted around to point at the crackling green wound in the sky. “More than anyone else can do. More than I can do.”

“You don’t know that,” Gethrael said teasingly. “Maybe you’re the Herald of Andraste, and the rift would close if you yelled at it really loud.”

“Pfft, tried it,” she gave a melodramatic huff. “N’I can’t put an arrow in that, right? Well... I have,” she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, “doesn’t come back down. That’s weird, right?” Geth opened his mouth to answer; but Sera started talking again. “What’s weird is that it’s right _there_ , that hole in the sky, and everybody just wants to punch each other. Too busy to look up where the real questions are.”

“And what are those?” Geth was honestly curious, it felt impossible to guess what Sera might say next. 

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” She said sharply. “Look, I help you. March-march-arrow-kick. We make people stop being stupid. Everything goes back to normal again. Got it, All Chosen Lord Herald?” She scrunched up her face, looking almost pouty. If she was annoyed with Gethrael for some reason, he ignored it. 

“Use my name, I’m begging you,” he said playfully. “It’s like no one realizes I’m a person!”

“Lots of ‘em probably don’t,” Sera gave a heavy sigh, “yeah, alright. Geth, was it?”

...

It turned out that the Ghislain estate was several hours’ walk from the Inquisition camp. The good news was that it was not on the exact opposite side of the city; so they barely needed to enter the outskirts. 

Sera had been good enough to help Gethrael painstakingly lace up the back of his tunic, and held him in place with her knee as she pulled the lacings even. Remembering what the shopkeeper had said, he tried a few times to leave part of his hair down and only pull back the front, but he’d never really styled it that way before and couldn’t get the tension quite right. Was there anyone he could ask? Geth realized very quickly that he had the longest hair by far of anyone in camp, so more than likely the answer was no. Varric caught him struggling, and reminded him that the shopkeeper had assumed he was a prostitute, so her advice probably wasn’t that relevant. 

Gethrael had given up, and braided all of his hair back up on his head. He felt a little silly, and he felt even sillier when they arrived at the Ghislain estate. Even the guards by the gates seemed to be dressed as well as he was. 

“Hey,” The Iron Bull gently nudged the back of his shoulder with two knuckles. “You look good,” the warm, gruff tone of his voice made Gethrael feel a pleasant tingle deep down in his stomach, and instantly got him smiling. 

The Qunari was wearing the same leather harness and loose striped trousers he always wore, and seemed completely unbothered. “I’m your bodyguard,” he’d said earlier, when Geth had teasingly asked if he was going to dress up, “and what, you think a fancy suit will make a guy like me blend in more?”

That was a good point - and made Gethrael wonder why he was trying himself. He’d be the only elf in the room either way. 

It was just passing dusk when the guards led them through the estate’s beautiful garden. Geth spotted at least a handful of plants he hadn’t seen before and wished he could look at in sunlight. He didn’t get much of a chance to think about it before the gilded double doors were pushed open, revealing a magnificent marble entranceway with sweeping staircases. 

“Master Lavellan on behalf of the Inquisition,” a man called out from behind him, and the volume was enough to make him jump. He could hear the babble of voices from upstairs, see the swirling shapes of people beyond the bannister. Down here was much emptier, but before he could possibly think what to do; a woman bustled up to him. 

“Are you really the Herald of Andraste?” She said in her thick Orlesian accent, gloved hands clasped in front of her. 

“How did you guess?” Gethrael found himself holding his left hand a little closer to his body, thinking of what Sera had said about him glowing. 

The woman giggled. “Why, so many in Val Royeaux have been speaking your name, Master Lavellan - even more so since you arrived in the city yesterday. Are you here to see Madame de Fer? Or perhaps you know the Duke?”

“Madame de Fer?” 

“Is that, perhaps,” Varric sauntered up beside him, “another name for Lady Vivienne? That’s who sent us the invitation.”

“Yes, yes,” she giggled again. “That is what we call her - The Iron Lady, for you foreigners,” she said with an air of excitement instead of the disgust they’d been greeted with elsewhere. 

“Huh,” Varric said thoughtfully. 

“Now tell me, Herald,” the Orlesian woman continued, very animated for someone wearing a mask, “is it true, the stories people tell?”

“Well, maybe,” Gethrael said, bemused. “I don’t really know what these stories are.”

“They say that demons run in fear from you,” she said, leaning in a little, “and that Andraste herself pushed you from the rift!” He could see her gleeful smile peeking over the huge frilly collar of her gown. 

“... they’re a bit exaggerated,” Geth grinned, though it almost faltered when he was hit with a powerful waft of the scent she was wearing. Wow. He knew humans wore scented oils - he’d smelled a hint on Josephine before, too - but that was _strong_. 

“Do not be so modest!”

“We weren’t expecting such a warm welcome,” Varric said, charismatic as ever. 

“Oh, it’s always the same people at these things; fresh faces are so exciting - Maker, are you a Qunari?”

The Iron Bull gave a good-natured laugh from behind Gethrael. How she hadn’t spotted him before was a mystery. Maybe they really couldn’t see well with the masks on. 

“Pah, the Inquisition!”

Everyone turned to look as a man descended the staircase. He walked with a swagger in his step and was wearing a decidedly foolish hat. He seemed to very much like the attention. “It’s nothing but political washouts making a grab for power. Crazed Seekers and washed up Chantry Sisters, claiming an elf as their prophet - no one can take them seriously!” Though his mask hid his eyes, Gethrael could feel his gaze as surely as though the man had grabbed his tunic. 

“I never claimed to be a prophet,” Geth said, feeling now the attention of the room as those in the upper part of the hall started to take notice, some gathering at the bannister to watch. He kept his own eyes on the man who was still coming towards him. 

“So you admit to being a liar? In front of all of these people? Haha!” The elf cocked his head to the side, wondering if that was supposed to be an actual laugh. Before he could say anything, though, the Orlesian man continued; advancing into Gethrael’s space and stopping less than a handspan away, puffing out his chest. Geth did not step back. “I will show the world just how foolish you are. We shall duel in the courtyard this very hour-“

The Iron Bull’s huge presence came up against Gethrael’s back, close enough to feel his heat. It was... honestly rather arousing. Geth bit his cheek to stop himself from laughing when the man stumbled back a step in shock. “I don’t think so,” though the Qunari had been laughing a moment before, his voice was cold and threatening. Gethrael was well aware he was supposed to be thinking of other things right now, but that caused a twinge in his gut all the same. 

“Of course,” the man scowled, and it seemed like he was trying very hard not to look afraid of Bull. “How could I expect an _elf_ to face me like a man?”

He put a hand on the hilt of the funny thin sword in his belt. Gethrael wasn’t afraid, though the guards at the gate had taken their weapons. He was fairly certain that he could cast lightning regardless if he had to, and Bull certainly did not need an axe. 

Before he could think much further than that, ice crystals blossomed across the Orlesian man’s tunic, spreading like spiderwebs. He stopped mid-step, unable to move. The candlelight in the hall made the frost that crept up his neck glitter like some of the elaborate beaded gowns. Geth felt a gust of frigid air, and looked up to see a stately woman in silver and white descending the staircase. 

“My dear Marquise,” she said in an aristocratic voice. “I won’t stand for you insulting my guests.” Gethrael could only just see his eyes flicking back and forth in terror under the mask. 

Her heels clicked on the marble as she approached. She was a tall woman; and beautiful as far as Geth could see. Other men might be distracted by the cut of her dress, especially considering how close her breasts were to eye level. It was impossible not to look at them, but the Herald quickly moved on to her very interesting hat, which looked like a set of horns. She looked at Gethrael, and then at the frozen Marquise. “Whatever shall I do with this very rude man?”

It took Geth a moment to realize she was, in fact, talking to him. “You’re asking me?”

“Why, of course. The insult was to you and yours.”

There was a definite air that she was waiting for a specific answer, and Geth knew just enough to feel that what he said would be vitally important. He could sense Varric willing him to say something, but was almost sure that asking the dwarf was the absolutely wrong thing at this moment. 

“... let him go,” Gethrael said, and when no one reacted in horror he started to smile. “I think nearly pissing himself in front of all these people was quite the punishment for him.”

The woman laughed a laugh that was somehow both emotionless and delighted. “I think you’re quite right, my dear.” She snapped her fingers, and the spell fell away into a harmless shower of snow. The man crumpled almost completely to the ground with a gasp. “Run along, Marquise - make sure you return that tunic you’re wearing to your aunt before she notices it missing.”

The Marquise scrambled away, panting for breath, amidst titters from the gathered crowd. 

“Are you Enchanter Vivienne?” Geth asked, looking up at her. He was relieved that he could see her dark eyes through her mask, though she was no more readable for it. 

“How astute of you. I presume you are the titular Herald of the Inquisition?”

“I suppose,” Gethrael grinned at her, but she did not laugh this time. “... pleased to meet you.”

“I’m sure,” Vivienne waved her hand dismissively. “Your companions are not necessary. They’re free to enjoy my hospitality.”

Iron Bull took half a step forwards, but she levelled him with a look. “I assure you, Qunari; the Herald is quite safe in my presence.”

That she wasn’t to be argued with was more than clear. Varric gave Geth a pat on the arm. “... find me if you need me.”

“My dear,” Vivienne continued as they left, in a lofty tone that confused Gethrael utterly, “whatever shall we do about these clothes?” She pinched the filmy silk of his billowing sleeve, somehow radiating disgust despite her face not moving at all. 

Geth looked down at himself, thinking he must’ve gotten dirty and not noticed. He still looked fine. “I’m sorry, Madame... I really have no idea what people wear in Orlais, much less to parties,” he said sheepishly, then corrected himself, “salons.”

She fixed him with a beautiful smile that was completely devoid of warmth. “They are fine enough clothes, for a courtesan,” she said, and she sounded kind but Gethrael saw an unnerving flash of her teeth. “For a man of your importance they’re quite inappropriate. You are the Herald of Andraste, after all. Come now.” She took his hand and placed it very firmly in the crook of her elbow. “And you mustn’t apologize,” she continued as they went up the sweeping marble staircase. “I realize you were raised elsewhere, but civilized folk will simply _devour_ you if you show them your throat.”

 _What_? Gethrael thought there might be an insult or two in there somewhere, but her kind tone disarmed him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand Orlesian politics,” he said. 

Vivienne laughed; a restrained and polite laugh the complete opposite of Sera’s shrill cackle. “Of course not, my dear. The Game is hopelessly complicated - far too much so for someone like you to comprehend. That is precisely why you need me.”

Geth brightened up immediately. “Thank you very much. I could use the help.”

It seemed that his response surprised her, as she was momentarily silent; her gaze flicking over him despite the stillness of her face. “Yes dear,” she said finally, in the same tone. “You certainly could. We shall begin with employing you a proper tailor.” He opened his mouth to thank her, and she held up a finger so firm that he paused mid-breath. “I will hear no more ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s. We aren’t in the woods foraging for berries; or quelling selfish civil wars in backwater Ferelden towns.”

“Oh, we aren’t?” Gethrael struggled not to smile, “I hadn’t noticed.”

The enchanter paused again, then laughed her lovely sounding laugh. “Oh, we shall make a player of you yet. Your first lesson - it is rare indeed one will do anything for you out of the kindness of their heart, so you shall not _thank_ them.”

“I don’t know,” Gethrael began, but Vivienne made a flippant gesture that silenced him. 

“You must trust me, my dear Herald,” she said sweetly. “I’ve invited you here to offer the allegiance of the last loyal mages of Thedas - represented by myself, of course.”

“... and who are the ‘last loyal mages’?”

“Why, those of us who still follow the Chantry; of course. Surely you can’t believe all mages to be dangerous apostates.”

Geth just blinked at her, wondering if this was a joke. If it was, was he supposed to laugh? “I’m not a ‘dangerous apostate’,” he said incredulously. 

“Goodness, my dear,” she placed a hand delicately to her ample chest, as though she needed to catch her breath. “One could certainly argue that.”

If there was a possible response to that statement, Gethrael didn’t know it. “Are there enough ‘loyal mages’ to help close the breach?” he said instead. 

“We are few and far between, I’m afraid,” Vivienne said, “I will send missives, certainly, but I can offer no guarantee those I reach will arrive in time.” 

“I understand,” Gethrael said, though something in the back of his mind wondered exactly what she was offering, then. 

“However,” she continued imperiously, “I do pledge my personal services; and more importantly, my support.”

“We welcome your help,” Geth said eagerly. Josephine would be so happy; so many people were coming from Orlais to join them. 

“It is my pleasure, dear. Now, there are a great many people of import here tonight at my behest. You absolutely must meet them.” This time she took his arm, her grip surprisingly frigid even through his sleeve. “In polite society, a man should offer a woman his arm.”

“Alright,” Gethrael looked down at her hand and then back at her with a smile. “I can’t exactly do that now.”

“No, I suppose you can’t,” she gave him a tolerant smile of her own. 

“I hope they aren’t all like that Marquis,” he said playfully as she started to pull him back towards the party. 

Vivienne laughed her calculated laugh. “Oh, no. You’ll encounter no more trouble.”

‘A great many people’ was no exaggeration. The night wore on and on, until Geth was dizzy from titles and names - many of which he was positive he couldn’t pronounce even once if asked to repeat them. The elaborate masks made them faceless, their eyes glittering somewhere deep within. It still made him uneasy. He found himself looking for Varric and The Iron Bull, but although he caught sight of them many times; Vivienne kept him close and demanded his attention every time it wandered. 

As Bull had promised, Gethrael felt his gaze many times. He had no doubt that if something happened, the Qunari would be there in a single moment. The elf began wishing something _would_ happen, just so this might end. All of the unidentifiable Orlesian nobles asked him the same kinds of questions - starting with whether he’d stepped out of the fade and devolving into whether he could kill demons by looking at them and other equally ridiculous things. Sly comments about his heritage, his ears and his vallaslin were peppered throughout; and by the time a woman asked him in a scandalized whisper if the Dalish really encouraged brother and sister take each other to bed, he was too exhausted to get angry. He had a headache coming on from the wine, and his stomach wasn’t quite sure how to feel about what he’d been eating. The plates of different foods were as endless as the amount of masked guests who wanted to talk to him, and he’d been offered what must’ve been all of them with an air that he was expected to say yes. It’d ended up being quite a lot of food, most of it utterly unlike anything he’d tried, and though he wasn’t nauseous he did really need to lie down. 

“You look terribly tired, my dear,” Vivienne said, as guests began to leave at long last. 

“Very,” Gethrael said, abashed. “I’d quite like to get back to our camp before dawn,” he meant it as a light comment, but even he knew it came out flat. 

The Madame, on the other hand, wore the same polite and restrained expression she had the entire night. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of making you go all that way. I’ve had rooms made up for you and your companions.”

He thanked her, genuinely happy that he could just sleep, and was finally reunited with Varric and The Iron Bull when a servant came to take them to their rooms.

“Did good out there,” Bull muttered in a low voice. “Looks like I’m across the hall. I’ll have an ear out.” With that, he pushed open the door to his room, ducking slightly so his horns wouldn’t catch the frame. 

Varric was looking him up and down with a critical eye, and Gethrael silently begged him not to ask any questions; feeling utterly incapable of responding. 

“Get some sleep, Marigold,” the dwarf said kindly; and nothing else. 

The room was not comforting, but at least it was private. Geth was nude by the time he crossed the room to the bed, clothes tossed on the floor as he went. The seams of the fitted tunic, tightened as it was by lacing at the back, left imprints in his skin at the waist. He was itchy and sore from wearing such clothes for so many hours, and he stretched out on the bed like a cat. 

It was a large room, filled with ornate things and a ceiling that seemed very close. The bed was soft, unnervingly so; but at least it was warm here in a way it simply wasn’t in Haven. 

Gethrael went to blow out the candle and realized he was breathing very heavily. His headache had become a building pressure; and moving much at all seemed impossible. 

He laid in the dark for a while, on top of the bedclothes, listening to himself breathe like he’d just been sprinting. His head felt full, yet at the same time he was unable to string together a complete thought. Even the words of the many devotionals he knew would not come to him, and that was a little frightening. 

_I just need to sleep._

Gethrael lay in silence, thinking of nothing at all. Eventually his breathing slowed and he got under the covers. 

Sleep did not come. 

The soreness of exhaustion was in him, but he was as alert as a halla before a wolf. It was the size of the room, maybe; it was far from the close walls of a tent or even the cabin at Haven. He pulled the blankets over his head, but it made him no less restless. Now he was able to think of devotionals to Sylaise, and that was a relief, but even running some through his mind did not settle. 

Frustrated and desperate, Geth pulled the coverlet from the bed and curled up on the floor, abandoning even the overstuffed pillow to rest his head on his arm. It wasn’t quite as warm; but he was much more comfortable on the firm ground with only a rug cushioning his body. 

Finally, he succumbed to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I’m not.... actually sure if I’ve ever made it 40k words before porn happened!

There was a fragility to Gethrael right now that Bull was only too aware of as they made the walk back to the Inquisition camp. He might be a cheerful little thing, but the last few days had been too damn much for him. Lot of yelling, lot of people, lot of fancy Orlesian crap. He’d handled things that’d be too much for many _trained_ men, and he’d never even seen a damn city until a few days ago. 

_Tougher than anyone gives you credit for._

He’d put his clothes from last night back on, and it seemed as though he’d slept with his hair like that. Bull had seen him crawl into his tent and then right back out in the morning with his braids still in place - if a bit worse for wear - so that didn’t seem too weird for him. 

The clothes looked good on him, but no surprise the Madame saw immediately that they were made for a classy whore. That was Orlais for you. Any well-dressed elf probably looked like a classy whore to a lot of them. There was the thinnest slit down the front of the tunic and the shirt underneath, all the way past his ribs. Really nice, in Bull’s opinion; just a little tease. Just a sliver of skin showing between gold braid trim and green brocade. The silk shirt, with its billowing sleeves, just made the Qunari think he’d get tangled in it if he had to swing his staff. 

It wasn’t that kind of outfit. Right. Not supposed to be practical. 

The Iron Bull had strongly considered going to Gethrael’s room last night in the estate. Any idiot could see the elf was emotionally exhausted, even though he couldn’t seem to see it himself. Even the attention the Madame had given him was enough to make him cling hopefully to her. 

Now there was one with questionable intentions. Questionable wasn’t quite the right word - it was actually obvious she was in this for potential personal gain and nothing else - but the Herald clearly couldn’t see that. He thought her kindness was genuine, and seeing that was worrying. 

Bull had known immediately that he was easily manipulated, but seeing how effortlessly he got taken advantage of was enough to turn Bull off of propositioning him that night. Something felt wrong about asking him to fuck when he’d just been led around like a little lamb on a rope for hours on end. 

If there was one thing Bull wanted, it was an enthusiastic _yes_ ; given totally of a potential partner’s own volition. With someone as suggestible as Gethrael was, approaching him for the first time in an unfamiliar place when he was so off-balance wasn’t quite right. As much as it might help the elf relax, Bull was not looking to create dependency on himself. 

Tonight was fair game. Their mission, if you could call it that; was well and truly over. They wouldn’t make the boat before it was too late to set out, so there was no doubt in his mind that they’d be at the camp for the day and turn in early to leave at sunrise. 

Cassandra demanding a detailed account of the evening - despite how foolish she’d claimed it to be - filled a few hours. By late afternoon, Krem and Skinner were challenging the Inquisition ex-Templars to spar, and that was a good opening. Especially since the Herald needed help with his combat so badly. 

“Hey, Seeker,” Iron Bull said, not interrupting her but firmly slipping into the conversation before she could ask something else. “I’m going to take him to spar with my guys. Alright?”

She squinted, giving him something of a disapproving look. “Very well. If you must.”

“Don’t know about you, but I need him to learn not to back up into me,” Bull teased, cuffing the elf on the shoulder and making him stumble. 

“Shouldn’t I get changed first?” Gethrael grinned at him, that big sweet smile he had; though Bull could see the tiredness somewhere behind it. 

“Ha - you’re right. Can’t do much but look pretty in that.” Iron Bull watched him flourish under that compliment, the little wiggle that he did as he tried to reorient himself. 

“I’ll do that, then.”

It wasn’t long before the elf joined them at their makeshift sparring ring, wearing what he was passing off as armour. Something had to get done about that, too, but one thing at a time. He was clutching his staff in front of him eagerly with both hands, but Dalish was on that; babbling away in Elvhen to him and handing over her practice staff. 

“Hey, Krem de la Krem.”

“... yes, Chief.”

“Take the Herald and show him how to not be a hazard,” Bull said, watching the Lieutenant give his sparring partner a friendly clap on the shoulder. 

“Course, Chief.” Krem motioned Gethrael over to him, going right in on his stance without even a pause. The kid was kind, and a good teacher - not going to give any quarter but also not going to beat up on someone who was inexperienced. He was also closer to the elf in size than Bull was, which was a little safer while Gethrael was still a beginner. 

As the afternoon turned into evening, the Chargers and the Inquisition soldiers alike started to take off their armour and go to grab drinks. The Herald had done alright. It was genuinely impressive that he didn’t seem to get embarrassed or discouraged, popping back up no matter how many times he got knocked on his ass. That was a good trait. He was going to learn for sure; the biggest block when teaching new recruits was always when they got down on themselves. He thanked Krem, wearing that big grin of his; and the Lieutenant grabbed his hand and clasped it, saying something encouraging that Bull didn’t exactly hear. 

The Qunari headed over when Krem wandered off, while Gethrael was straightening himself out. “You did good there. Tired?”

“Well, not sure if I’m up for another round,” the Herald rubbed the back of his neck. He was still in good humour, still smiling, but he was probably a bit sore. 

“Why don’t you meet me in my tent tonight - if you find it in you for ‘another round’.” Bull gave him a wolfish grin that was impossible to misinterpret, and watched his eyes go wide. 

Took him a second to come up with something. “Took you long enough,” he said, in an attempt at a husky tone that was somehow even worse than his drunk flirting. He was too excited to pull off the low purr he was trying for. 

Bull laughed, which did not seem to embarrass the elf at all. Good. “Gotta wait a few more hours,” he teased, leaning in to give Gethrael a surreptitious pat on the ass. Wouldn’t do that to most people before he’d even taken them to bed, but he was sure the Herald liked that kind of attention. 

He was right. Geth was caught a little off-balance, but when he straightened up he was wearing a huge grin. “Maybe just a few hours,” he said, tilting his chin up at Bull. 

As soon as night fell, Bull could feel Gethrael’s eyes on him. Though he was looking forwards to it himself, he wasn’t the kind of guy who got all torn up about that kind of thing. He could be patient. That was clearly not the case with Geth, which he could’ve guessed before this. It was tempting to draw it out; to tease him. It’d be so easy. Anything from readjusting himself while he felt that gaze on him, to acting like he might get up and leave the fire side. 

Maybe not tonight. He didn’t want to get Gethrael too worked up, and it wasn’t right for a first time playing around, either. The elf was already much less social than he had been other nights, driven to distraction - though Bull suspected he’d burned himself out on that kind of thing last night, probably more than he realized. He seemed genuinely in a good mood, at the very least eager for the lay he’d been wanting, but his body language was introverted. Everyone drinking and shouting around the fire wouldn’t have much appeal; too loud and too busy. 

Bull caught his eye over the fire, which was crackling from the fresh armload of logs that’d just been thrown in. Must be damp from the coastal air. He watched the Herald’s lips part in anticipation, and realized something that made the corner of his own mouth twitch. 

Gethrael was waiting for his permission. He didn’t need to, Bull hadn’t said a thing about that. Most people in his situation would’ve come over by now and said something pointed about going to bed. The rest were generally too shy for something like that. Geth wasn’t shy, and wasn’t embarrassed. Just wanted Iron Bull to call the shots for him, whether he’d consciously made that decision or not - though Bull would’ve been willing to put down coin that he hadn’t. 

The Qunari gave an incremental nod, looking right into those eyes that kept turning into little golden mirrors across the fire. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Gethrael was up fast enough to shatter any remaining idea that he might be embarrassed and trying to hide what he was doing.

When Iron Bull ducked into his tent after the elf, it was to see him already slipping out of his tunic. Bull couldn’t stop himself from grinning - eager little thing, wasn’t he? Impressive how fast he undressed, too; with hardly more than a brief smile over his shoulder and no care at all for if the tent flap was still open. He was down to his breeches in moments, and as he pushed those over his hips it became very obvious that he didn’t wear smallclothes.

“Hey,” Bull said, and though he didn’t make it an _order_ it was definitely more than a tease, “put those in a pile so we can find them later.”

Gethrael did not look even the slightest bit abashed. “Will I need to find them later?” he said with half-lidded eyes, in the thickly flirtatious tone that was apparently not exclusive to him being drunk. He still did what Bull said, though, and pretty quick.

“Long as you’re here, I’m pretty happy with this view,” Iron Bull said, making a show of raking his gaze up and down the Herald’s body. There was a lot to appreciate, but the first thing to catch Bull’s attention was the smattering of freckles over his slender shoulders and on his forearms; dark enough to see on his bronze skin. The way his waist nipped in was even more visible when he was nude, giving a pleasant curve to his hips despite them being quite small as well. No complaints at all here. Bull enjoyed a wide range of bodies, but Gethrael’s lithe build and pert ass were definitely nice to look at, especially as he was bending over to pick up his clothes. He was already half hard, which was a good ego boost. Bull waited a moment to see what he’d do when given no suggestion. 

Though the elf had plenty of room in this tent to go where he wanted, he immediately sat on the bedroll with parted knees. Ha. The hottest thing about him, no doubt, was how obviously comfortable he was with his body, and with all this. He had a strange charisma to him, despite an awkwardness that Krem had described as ‘almost painful’ when reporting about their first meeting. 

“Take me,” he said brazenly, his dark eyes locked on Bull’s without even a shade of hesitation in them. 

“Ha,” Iron Bull knelt on the bedroll in front of him, grinning right back at his excited smile. “I know you want to ride The Bull, but that’s a lot to take for a little guy like you,” he teased, a careful eye on Gethrael’s body language as he leaned forwards. Not intimidated in the least - actually, his breath caught for a moment as Bull leaned in, slowly planting one hand beside him, then the other. 

“I’ll be fine,” Gethrael said, his own gaze greedily taking in Iron Bull. 

It’d already become obvious that the elf wasn’t very self aware, so Bull just chuckled and put a gentle hand on his chest to push him flat. His heart was definitely beating quickly from anticipation, but it wasn’t racing. He really wasn’t scared at all. Might be worth at least a try to fuck him, then, if he wanted it so bad. 

“How long’s it been for you,” Bull asked in a husky voice, letting his fingers trail down Gethrael’s stomach, intentionally skirting his cock. As soon as they went there it was going to get tough getting answers out of him. He already seemed to be struggling to concentrate. 

“Since I sated myself?” He asked, tilting his head quizzically. “Last night.”

Iron Bull couldn’t help but laugh again, and even that didn’t seem to make the Herald self conscious. “Since you’ve had someone inside you.”

“Oh, I haven’t,” Gethrael said cheerfully. 

_Shit._ It took an awful lot to surprise Bull, but that did it. He was this eager, this bold and had never been fucked? “No one’s taken you,” Bull repeated, needing to confirm it. 

“Dalish clans are small,” the elf looked a little abashed, furrowing his brow. “Of course I _wanted_ to.”

“Right,” Bull grunted, and it took considerable self control not to start chuckling again. 

“Is it that shameful?” He was clearly confused, and for the first time maybe a little embarrassed. 

“Not like that,” Bull said kindly, trailing the heavy hand that rested on his hip up his body until he reached his chin. Bull held him there with two fingers so he wouldn’t look away. “You’ll have to settle for my hand - it’s gonna take practice for someone your size to relax enough for my dick.”

Gethrael didn’t look happy with that answer. In fact, he looked like he wanted to argue that he’d be able to take it, or that he didn’t care if it was going to hurt. However, he hadn’t gotten any less hard; in fact, he was restlessly shifting his thighs. His dark eyes flicked over Iron Bull again. “You’ll still...?” The corner of his mouth twitched in an almost smile. 

“Oh, I’ll ‘still’,” Bull grinned back at him. The Herald seemed to take that as permission to touch, sliding nimble hands as far as he could reach over Bull’s shoulders. As the Qunari moved his hand back South, Gethrael pulled himself up and made a move to kiss him. 

Really, Bull didn’t mind, but it was best to dissuade that. Keep a little distance between them. A lot of people took that as a signal to get attached, and at least until he was sure Geth wasn’t one of those people, it was best to play it safe. 

Iron Bull played it off well, though, using that exact moment to wrap his hand around the elf’s cock. Damn, he was _hard_ for a guy who hadn’t really been touched yet. Bull grinned down at him as he gasped and whined instead of getting that kiss he’d wanted so badly a second ago. He clearly needed this. How had he been surviving on his own?

Iron Bull knew he should take it easy; this first time, just jerk him off and make him feel good. Yet there was the sadist in the Qunari’s mind, saying _I bet you can make him wait all night_ , and the idea of that was too tempting to ignore. Especially since he was used to just jerking off, and that wasn’t going to tire him out. With his libido, he wouldn’t get to feel really spent - that could be a tough thing to do to yourself without just masturbating until you chafed. 

This was, without a doubt, what Gethrael needed. He needed to be teased and edged into a whimpering mess, until a single orgasm could make him feel finished. Iron Bull’s cock twitched even thinking about it. 

Bull stroked his thumb over the head of Geth’s cock, carefully watching the furrow of his brow. There. When his expression got a little bit tight, the touch was over stimulating him. He wouldn’t be able to burst from that. Honing in on the too-sensitive spot, Bull used it to tease him.

Delicate hands moved down Bull’s shoulders, eagerly exploring what they could reach. It was already too easy to imagine teaching this one, to tell him, ‘no touching till I say’; to make him lay back and be spoiled. So much potential, and all of it fucking hot. 

“Still want something in you?” Bull asked as he dragged the pad of his thumb torturously slow across the slit of the elf’s cock. 

“Hh- uh huh,” Gethrael’s white lashes fluttered against his cheeks, which had quite the rosy blush despite his complexion. 

Obviously Bull had brought oil with him, and he moved his hand away to retrieve it and slick a finger. It was safe to say Iron Bull didn’t have small hands, but the Herald had implied he had some type of toy he fucked himself with. One should be fine. 

As soon as he wasn’t being touched any more, Geth gave a pathetic little groan, screwing his face up almost like he was in pain. Bull chuckled darkly. As Gethrael’s fingers trailed downwards, tracing over the Qunari’s scarred chest, he had a pretty good idea someone wasn’t going to be able to resist touching himself. 

“No.” Bull said firmly the moment he felt Geth’s hands leave him. He didn’t have to say more than that - Gethrael immediately put his hands up over his head. Practically asking to be pinned down. 

There was no stopping Bull’s grin. Shit, this elf. ‘Natural submissive’ barely covered it. 

“So, what do you want me to do to you?” Though Iron Bull’s tone was deceptively casual, his voice was a husky purr as he rubbed the slick pad of his finger against that tight hole. A full-body tremble ran through Gethrael. 

“Ah... t-take me?” He sounded a little taken aback, like he thought that meant Bull was changing his mind. 

“Ha, yeah. I know,” the Qunari took it slow to push past his resistance, but felt the muscles relax for him with a needy flutter. That was good, but nothing compared to the little whorish groan Gethrael gave as he was penetrated. “You gonna think about that next time you touch yourself?” He teased. 

“Already have,” the elf muttered, obviously confused. Iron Bull had to give another dark chuckle - he’d known this one was pretty shameless, maybe he shouldn’t have expected something like that to fluster him. His hands were still over his head, twisting and twining together as though he actively needed to stop himself from using them for other things now. Okay; Bull would hold him if he wanted it so much. Leaning over him like that gave a great view of his face, too, one he couldn’t hide from if he decided to try. His eyes were bright and wet and already full of his total surrender. As Bull caught his wrists in a single hand, he audibly had to catch his breath. He needed this _bad _.__

__Bull kept it slow, gentle, already getting the idea that Gethrael liked it rough. Slow would frustrate him; did frustrate him. Keeping a close watch on the elf’s body language and expression had him slowing even to a stop when tension went through him just so, or when his eyes started to roll back. He was a vocal, expressive little thing, which made edging him surprisingly easy. It wasn’t long until Bull was getting all kinds of sounds from him, and he had no problem admitting how arousing that was. The Qunari could feel his hard cock pressing against the fabric of his trousers - but he was more than accustomed to pushing those feelings to the side. For Iron Bull, the goal was bringing pleasure to who he was with. Even if he had to get off after they left, blowing their mind made it just as sweet for him._ _

__Gethrael had broken into a sweat, his hips canting against Bull’s hand with every thrust. Anything but the briefest touch on his prostate now would no doubt be agony, his cock was leaking and purple against his stomach. Of course, that was the very thing that made trying it so tempting. Pressing deep, Bull hooked his finger hard and earned a full-throated cry that definitely sounded like pure pleasure. Good thing that Iron Bull didn’t give a shit about people hearing how good of a lay he was._ _

__“Guess you like it when it hurts,” the Qunari teased. Gethrael nodded eagerly, biting his lip as Bull pressed deep inside him again. So he got off on a little pain, too; and he clearly _loved_ being held down. He was squirming just a little against Bull’s grip, just enough to feel that he couldn’t get away. Showing him some real power games was going to be fucking incredible. _ _

__The elf tensed; only a little, but it was telling. His body wanted release. Bull was ready for that, and gave his balls a gentle tug with his second and third fingers._ _

__Gethrael’s groan was half a growl, and he thumped his head back against the bedroll. Most men would be begging by now, the frustration unbearable even if they loved being denied. Geth hadn’t begged at all, though, and he still wasn’t. Bull had the distinct feeling it hadn’t even occurred to him. Would it? Knowing how the elf was, maybe not._ _

__Well, if he liked it so much... Bull would push a little more. Continuing to fuck Gethrael tortuously slow with a single finger, Iron Bull worked him up to the very edge again and pulled him back._ _

__This time there was an angry snap, and a bolt of blue lightning jumped from Geth’s throat to the center of his chest; then straight into Bull before he could think to do much about it. Not that he could’ve done much anyways. Fucking mages. It _hurt_ too, the pain made him snarl. It also made him harder than steel - throbbing, blood pumping hard. The primal part of him reared up with the urge to pound the little mage senseless, leave him too sore to walk and with cum leaking down his thighs. _ _

__“Sorry,” Gethrael whimpered, chest heaving as he panted for breath. “T-too much... hard to control it...”_ _

__That pulled Iron Bull back to his senses completely and immediately. “Need me to stop?” he said; and despite his voice being so low and husky it was probably hard to hear, he made sure it was kind. Utterly non threatening._ _

__Gethrael shook his head so frantically that he looked a little dizzy. “If you stop I think I’ll die,” he managed in between pants for breath._ _

__Bull gave him a lopsided grin. “Don’t hold it back. I can take it.” He had a thought of mages getting all tied up inside with stress, how maybe it would feel good to get a little release. He didn’t know how magic worked and had never really cared to, but whatever felt good was something he could get behind. Especially if it manifested as biting back at Bull like that, damn. That really made a guy feel alive._ _

__Without warning, the Qunari started up with the merciless fuck Gethrael was so clearly craving. All at once the careful teasing was gone, each thrust slamming into his prostate. The wanton, full-throated moans were immediate, Geth’s back bowing and his hips trying to meet Bull’s hand despite him being too dazed to still do it properly. The long line of his body, stretched out with his wrists over his head; was beautiful, and Bull thought he must be even prettier with that long hair of his all down and fanned out around him._ _

__The temptation was there to stop his orgasm yet again, but he was really tearing up and with the way his body was shaking that might be enough for tonight. There would be a lot of opportunities to play, to teach him and push him. The guttural, animal moan that Bull got from him when he finally climaxed was enough reward by itself; but the Qunari drank in all of him. Still massaging deep inside Geth as he spilled, there was the smell of ozone and a flash and the hand holding those tiny wrists went numb._ _

__The Herald muttered something in Elvhen, gasping for breath. There was the glow of sweat on his face and chest, and Bull could imagine the muscles in his gut must be sore from tension and holding back. He’d painted cum partway up his ribs. For a moment he looked as though he might’ve passed out; eyes still closed and an easy smile curling his lips._ _

__Really, though, Iron Bull expected this when he gave someone an orgasm that intense. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just let the Herald come back to him when he could._ _

__And he did. _Quick_ , too. _ _

__“Can I,” Gethrael managed, still breathless; stray hair sticking to his cheeks. The dizzy, dazed look he had just from this made Bull hunger to try more intense play with him. He’d gone into a submissive place just from being edged and held down._ _

__Bull pulled out of him and released his wrists, watching him flex the blood back into his hands. “Can you what?” He asked, bemused. “Not sure you _can_ do much just now.”_ _

__Gethrael gestured to the bulge in Iron Bull’s trousers with a glint in his dark eyes. He sincerely, genuinely bit the inside of his lip. “ _Can I?_ ” he repeated, coyly and with half-lidded eyes. He... really thought that was some sexy, flirtatious look; didn’t he? Cute. _ _

__“Worry about catching your breath,” Bull said, patting his cheek gently with his clean hand. “I’m good.”_ _

__He was met with a stubborn look that was very close to a pout. Gethrael curled himself into a kneeling position, still between Bull’s own knees. “I’d really like to,” he said, and when he didn’t immediately get a response he added, “I’ve done this part before.”_ _

__Bull chuckled, reaching for a rag and wiping his hand before starting to clean off the elf’s stomach. “You don’t need to do anything for me.” Wasn’t something he worried about much the first time he took someone to bed; maybe not even other times, depending who they were._ _

__“... but can I?” Geth said, looking up at Bull with a gaze that shone with desire. He was still darkly flushed, breathing through slightly parted lips that still somehow hinted a smile. He placed his hands almost politely on Bull’s thighs. “Please? I’ve... Ah, been thinking about it,” he said, and he looked more excited to say this than anything close to embarrassment. “When I satisfy myself, I mean. I really want to.”_ _

__Seeing him sitting there, comically eager gaze flicking between Bull’s face and his trousers, made it impossible to refuse. He was basically fucking begging, and it was so... innocent? He clearly didn’t know what he was doing, what it would do to Iron Bull - who felt an undeniable throb of arousal._ _

__“Ha,” Bull gave him a lopsided grin, “since you asked so nice,” he teased._ _

__Gethrael immediately lit up with a smile like the sun. Paired with his submissive daze, it was attractive in a way even Bull couldn’t have predicted. The Qunari sat back, untying his trousers and casually pulling out his cock. He watched the elf’s eyes grow wide and even more excited at the sight of it, and had to chuckle._ _

__“I’ll lay back for you - don’t want you hurting yourself.”_ _

__“No guarantees,” he said with a breathless smile, already wiggling around to get into a good position. He pushed the blanket around to get a little more under his knees; so maybe he had done this before. Again, Bull had never seen anyone less intimidated by him. The elf looked so excited as considered his approach, his tongue darting over his lips._ _

__He was not very good at it, but Iron Bull had expected that. How much experience sucking cock could he really have, considering he’d never been fucked? He did figure out pretty quickly that he could help himself out with his hand, stroking what he couldn’t take, and his sheer enthusiasm helped a lot. He was delightful to watch, looking up at Bull best he could through his pale lashes. Seemed like he’d love a facefuck too, Bull could feel himself pressing against the elf’s throat once, twice. He was about to say something, say it was okay to not take it deep; when Gethrael suddenly forced past the muscle and moaned like a whore. Damn, that was good. His spasming throat was one thing, but seeing how undeniably he liked it..._ _

___Guess you’re a giver, too._ _ _

__“Careful,” Bull grunted when he felt Geth’s throat flutter like crazy. He grabbed a handful of the elf’s hair and yanked him back an inch or two, which immediately earned another groan. Wow. Eyes watering, he followed instruction and focused on what he could fit in his mouth. Bull had no problem with someone who needed instruction. “Right there,” he muttered when he felt Gethrael’s tongue flick against a sensitive spot. It got immediate focus, and Bull rewarded him with a, “yeah, that’s it.” He kept the heavy hand on his head, giving his braids a tug to encourage him to start bobbing up and down again. That got a whine too. Sounded like he might actually need to go again after this._ _

__A little nudging in the right direction got Iron Bull pretty close, but Geth was being too gentle. Couldn’t blame him, no doubt it was right for a human or an elf. Bull took the hand out of his hair - which was starting to get messy in a really hot way - and replaced the slender hand on his dick with his own. Gethrael didn’t seem offended at all, immediately bracing himself on Bull’s thighs and pushing against the back of his throat again._ _

__Shit, that was doing the trick. Bull could get himself off easily, and he was already close; so he wasn’t going to be long. “You wanna swallow?” He grunted, and was met with nodding that was so enthusiastic he got a hint of teeth that made him suck in a sharp breath. “Hah, keep up like that.” He got a questioning look as the elf let his teeth touch the ridge behind the head of Bull’s cock. “Yeah.”_ _

__Since he wanted to swallow, Iron Bull didn’t bother giving him a warning - didn’t seem like he wanted or needed one. When Bull shot his load, Gethrael made more noise than he did, giving a throaty ‘nnnh,’ that would be enough to get a guy hot even out of context. Bull expected him to choke a bit, but he took it with no trouble at all; and didn’t stop until he was grabbed by the hair again._ _

__“Weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to do that,” Bull teased, noticing as the elf wiped spit off his chin that he had actually swallowed the whole load. That was almost a shame, because that dazed giddy look of his could only look better with cum dripping out of his mouth._ _

__“I told you!” Gethrael said, and it looked like he was fighting a grin. He burst into a fit of giggles, and Bull had to chuckle too. Real cute._ _

__“Need more?” Iron Bull’s voice was warm and husky, already reaching a hand between his legs to put a bit of pressure against his half-hard cock._ _

__“I-” Geth cut himself off with a gasp as he was touched. He definitely did want more, but the look on his face said he wasn’t going to dare ask. Bull let him have a little friction. The squeaking sound he made and the way his expression got tight meant he was very sensitive, but he was definitely into it._ _

__“Kind of insatiable, aren’t you?” Bull said darkly._ _

__Gethrael looked up at him with utterly helpless and subservient eyes, biting his lip in an exaggerated way that would’ve been unbelievable on anyone else. The Iron Bull knew he could do anything in that moment, anything at all._ _

__The only thing he did was continue palming the elf’s dick, and drink in all of his breathy little whimpers. He felt blunt fingernails through the fabric of his pants as Geth braced himself between Bull’s thighs again._ _

__A spasm wracked his body, and he gave a tiny choked cry; as though all of his other sounds had been rung out of him. He slumped into Bull’s chest, and the Qunari couldn’t stop a good-natured chuckle. He was pretty sure Gethrael hadn’t even shot that time - couldn’t be much left in him to shoot._ _

__“You good, there?” Iron Bull could only see a little disheveled blond head, and shoulders heaving as he tried to get his breath back._ _

__For a moment, there was no response. Then another breathless laugh. “I’m... I’m good,” the Herald managed, and he sounded giddy. “Really good, wow.”_ _

__“Glad to hear it,” Bull grinned, moving his hands so he could get a decent hold on Gethrael and laying him back on the bedroll._ _

__He looked totally blissed out. Bull felt that satisfied warmth inside his chest, the one he always felt when he knew he’d done a damn good job._ _

__He shifted to sit next to Gethrael, keeping a hand on him - a hand that the elf was soon holding in both of his. He was obviously an affectionate little guy._ _

__“So, when can we do this again?” Geth purred, doing those ‘bedroom eyes’ of his again, and Iron Bull couldn’t help a chuckle._ _

__“Already thinking about next time?” The Qunari gave him a grin, nudging his freckled shoulder with two fingers. Couldn’t blame him._ _

__“Yes!” He was still giddy, but his gaze flicked down briefly in a subconscious display of coyness._ _

__Well, best to get this out in the open right away. “Ha, me too - there’s a _lot_ more I wanna try with you.” That got a look of instant, almost comical excitement. Good, but he had to actually listen. “This is a casual thing, but I’m good to go as long as you want it.” Iron Bull watched him carefully, searching for confirmation that he understood. There was only that wide-eyed, defenceless delight. It put Bull in mind of a prey animal. _ _

__“I definitely want it,” Geth answered, quick as anything, and again Bull caught that shadow of surprising determination passing over his face. Not listening. Just like he’d insisted he could take cock, all over again. Maybe there was some brat in him after all._ _

__Iron Bull took his hand from the elf’s grasp, catching his chin with a finger and guiding him to meet his gaze. Gethrael did so with an absence of both pride and shyness, and that was something you didn’t see too often. “So you’re good with a ‘friends having fun’ deal?” He gave Gethrael a hard look, searching his dark eyes for anything hinting at dishonesty._ _

__“Yes, of course,” the Herald said plainly, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was confused by the sudden serious tone, looking for the tease; but he was telling the truth. “It’s more than enough, having _that_ to look forwards to,” he added as the smile spread to the rest of his mouth. _ _

__Iron Bull actually laughed. “Not sure how you’ve lasted so long without someone taking care of you,” he said, voice a low rumble. Geth was finally past getting hard, but he still reacted to the tone. His fingers curled and his bottom lip momentarily thinned, like he was pulling it into his mouth to bite it again. Seriously, how had he been handling himself? Truth be told; Bull didn’t just mean that in the dirty way. Didn’t Gethrael travel all the way to Conclave alone? Almost hard to believe._ _

__“I didn’t really have a choice,” the elf said playfully. He got comfortable on the bedroll, pillowing his head on his arm._ _

__“Hey,” Bull said gently, stroking the side of his neck with a knuckle, “bad idea to fall asleep here. The Seeker will lose her mind if she doesn’t find you in your tent tomorrow.”_ _

__Gethrael heaved a sigh, stretching like a cat and sitting back up. “You’re right. She probably still thinks I’d run away.”_ _


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of Herald of Andraste!! I can’t believe it! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you’ll join me again to meet up with Dorian in the next instalment, The Adventure at Redcliffe!

“I’ve come to speak with the Herald.”

Camp was in the midst of being cleared, and Gethrael wasn’t terribly interested in anyone asking for ‘the Herald’ to say the least; so he didn’t even bother looking up at the newcomer. He was helping roll up and tie the tents, not an unfamiliar task, and one that kept his hands busy. 

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” It was Cassandra’s shocked tone that got his attention more than the name or title, which he didn’t know much - if anything - about. 

A small and plain elven woman in robes stood in front of the Seeker. She was alone, as far as Geth could see, and Cassandra was actually gaping at her. “Yes,” she said simply, with a slight inclination of her head. “I was told the Herald was here,” her voice was both soft and firm, not aggressive nor overly polite like Madam Vivienne’s. 

“You were not at Conclave?” Cassandra demanded. Seeing a human shouting at an elf made Gethrael come closer without really thinking about it, as though Cassandra might accuse this woman of causing the explosion. 

“No,” Fiona said evenly, “I sent a representative. I would’ve been a fool not to, I knew the Templars were planning something. Of course I never expected _this_...”

“You think the _Templars_ are responsible for this?”

“Careful, Miss Cassandra,” Gethrael said playfully, stepping up beside her, “if you open your mouth any wider, el’aria miol - ah,” he laughed at himself, realizing he didn’t know the phrase in Common. “You’ll... make a home for insects?”

The Seeker stared at him in a way that said he was making no sense, but Fiona said, “... start trapping flies, I think,” and gave Gethrael a restrained smile. “Are you the Herald?”

“However did you know,” Geth said with cheerful sarcasm. The woman immediately turned her attention to him. Now that he was face to face with her, he noticed that although her speech and mannerisms were completely different to Madame Vivienne’s, there was something almost as commanding about her presence. 

“I come on behalf of the rebel mages,” she said, instead of answering. “We had our concerns about the Inquisition -“ she gave Cassandra a pointed look, “-but seeing an unchained mage at its head, we are happy to offer our allegiance.”

“But I was never a part of any Circle,” Gethrael said quickly, “I don’t want to mislead you.”

“All that matters is that you aren’t under Chantry control,” Fiona said, leaving no room for argument. “Please, come to Redcliffe. I admit that I know little of this new magic, but it is powerful and I believe you’ll need more than a handful of mages to fight it.”

“And this has nothing to do with the Templars cornering your people and forcing them to seek asylum at Redcliffe?” Cassandra said sourly. 

“I can’t argue that we need alliances,” Fiona said without shame. “I’d be a fool to try.”

“Hm,” Cassandra said, then turned to Geth, “we must return to Haven and discuss this with Leliana and Commander Cullen.” The way she said that made him think she didn’t really want to discuss it, but he nodded regardless. 

“Guess it’s a good thing we’re already leaving,” the elf said, but Cassandra didn’t look amused. 

Gethrael didn’t necessarily hate boats - how could he, when they kept him out of the water - but on the way back from Val Royeaux, he couldn’t wait to be off of the thing. Sharing two rooms in the hold amongst all of the Chargers, Inquisition soldiers, Cassandra, Varric, and now Sera too; wasn’t the tightest quarters he’d endured but it certainly wasn’t ideal. There was no privacy at all, and considering what The Iron Bull had done with him the night before they departed, Gethrael was definitely longing for some time alone. If not to ask for more, then at least to pleasure himself and calm the pal’isalthe that settled in his gut whenever he thought about how it’d felt to be helpless with one of those huge hands restraining him, or - _Creators_ \- the Qunari’s cock. Just the memory of how intense his climax had been made him eager to do it again. 

It was enough to keep things out of his mind, especially combined with walking and riding once the boat landed. In the open air it was easy to forget Val Royeaux, and the Templars, and how the Revered Mother had recoiled from him in horror. Part of him knew when they reached Haven again it’d be different, that everything from Orlais would come back with a vengeance, but for now he didn’t have to think about it. 

Madame Vivienne and her attendants met up with them a half day’s ride from the docks. The Enchanter was on a pure white horse with silver-foiled tack to match her shining robes, and several Orlesian guards and hand servants rode after her with luggage. Cassandra gave her a wide berth; and Gethrael didn’t even need to her her disgusted scoff to know she was doing it. She showed no interest whatsoever in the Seeker, however, guiding her horse in next to Geth’s at first opportunity. 

“Such a shame I did not bring my carriage,” she said, in her arch voice, “such creature comforts whilst travelling are beyond compare. I thought it a touch too extravagant for the mountains, perhaps.”

Gethrael was not sure a carriage would even make it up the road to Haven. It was muddy and deeply furrowed, not to mention very steep. Supply carts often got stuck. “I don’t think that sounds comfortable,” he said brightly, “I like the fresh air.”

The Madame gave a little chuckle like a ringing bell. “Goodness, yes. I suppose you would.” She wasn’t wearing her metal mask, at least, which was a relief - but even so, Geth found her face almost as blank. She was a beautiful woman, he thought, but the way she regarded him with no expression he could read was unnerving. 

“How did you wind up at court?” Geth asked in the silence that followed, feeling a little awkward with how she watched him. He didn’t know much about her, at the salon there’d been a lot of introducing, and other people talking about themselves. 

“Oh, nobody winds up at court, my dear,” Vivienne said, hand to her chest, “it takes great effort to arrive there. I was lucky enough to catch the eye of Duke Bastien Du Ghislain, something that opened a great many connections. When the position of Court Enchanter became available, I was able to arrange a recommendation.”

“So you’re a Duchess, too?” Gethrael said playfully. 

This seemed to be very funny to her, and maybe not in the way he’d intended it. “Don’t be ridiculous, my dear!” She shook her head, as though she could hardly believe he’d asked such a thing. “Marriage is the business of alliance and inheritance. I’m Bastien’s mistress.” 

The elf immediately perked up. “I thought humans frowned upon lathal’en.”

Vivienne furrowed her brow at him incrementally. “You must speak the King’s Tongue, my dear.”

“It means loving more than one person,” Gethrael said, wondering if there was even a word for it in this language. “I was always told humans didn’t understand it.” He suddenly found himself feeling a kinship with the enchanter that he’d struggled to pick out even a thread of when he’d met her at the salon. 

Her expression was still difficult for him to read, but she seemed... surprised. Like this was not the reaction she’d expected from him at all. “That isn’t untrue. Many do not. Though I was not... involved, with the Duchess; we got along quite well. We used to host musical salons together, she was quite a patron of the arts.” Vivienne’s horse went to reach for the tempting branch of a nearby sapling, and she corrected it strictly with hardly a twitch of her hand. “She passed away from a fever a few years ago, the poor dear.”

It did not seem that she wanted condolences, though it was hard to say. “Would you tell me about the Circle?” Gethrael said after a moment. He had been desperately curious at least since seeing the mages and Templars at the Crossroads, and this was the first person who might be able to tell him. 

She gave him a long, appraising look. “I suppose you’ve never seen the inside of one - yet you seem to have some skill. Are you self taught?”

Gethrael shook his head. “I was taught by my clan’s Keeper, Deshanna Istimaethorial,” he said, and felt no pang of longing. 

“I’ve heard about the Dalish traditions of magic, but it’s all third hand,” something in Vivienne’s tone shifted yet again, and it left Geth strangely unsettled. “I shall answer your question - though it is not so clear an answer as you might like. Simply put, every Circle is different. Their Templars are different, their teachings are different, each has its own distinct internal politics and is full of individuals that have unique experiences of life within. Some were cruel, some compassionate, some indifferent. The same is true of people everywhere; in all circumstances, whether they are mages or not.”

Gethrael blinked at her for a moment. What she said made perfect sense to him; one could even say the same of Dalish clans. Some had traditions as strict as arranged marriages and assigned roles within the clan from birth, or killing any humans who came into contact with them. Obviously that was a long way from Geth’s experience. Still, he had the distinct feeling he was missing something in Vivienne’s words, and it made ‘you’re right,’ stick on his tongue. “How do you feel about the Templars?” He asked instead. Seeing as they’d attacked him on his way to Conclave, he sort of doubted they’d stop to find out if Vivienne was a loyal mage or not. 

She laughed, the same laugh she’d done at the salon. “Heavens. Having opinions about Templars, my dear, is the same as having opinions about mages, or Nevarrans, or _men_.” She gave him a coy look clearly meant to evoke mutual understanding. He just blinked at her again. “I’ve known some Templars who were unspeakably cruel, and others who were utterly charming. Yes, I have suffered insults from those wearing the armour, but no more than I’ve suffered from tradesmen in Val Royeaux. I’m sure you’ve experienced the same.” Because he was an elf? Was that what she meant?

“The Lord Seeker broke that Chantry woman’s nose,” Gethrael said in disbelief. “Do you think that still applies? I never had a reason to fear Templars, and they still gave me one.”

“Why of course; you are an apostate, after a-“

“Hey! Vivvy!” Sera called, grinning fit to burst as her horse trotted up level with them. 

“It is properly Madame Vivienne, official mage to the Imperial Court,” the enchanter said immediately, and though her voice sounded just the same; there was a tiny crease between her brows. 

“Got something for you,” Sera said, bracing her hands on her horse’s saddle. She shot Gethrael a conspiratorial glance, and he pressed his lips together to stop himself from smiling. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he felt sure that if he started grinning too it’d give something away. 

“It’s my butt!” Sera gleefully shouted the moment that Vivienne parted her lips to respond. All at once Sera kneeled up on the saddle and yanked down her breeches, waggling her bare ass at Vivienne. 

Gethrael burst out laughing, even though the enchanter only seemed taken aback for a moment. She sighed, looked at Geth, and rolled her eyes. “You can do better than this sorry creature, my dear.” Sera kicked her horse forward hard enough to spill her half off of the saddle, but she was still howling with laughter. 

...

The return to Haven was quite an affair, Josephine bustling out of the Chantry before they’d even gotten properly in sight of it; rushing to graciously welcome Madame Vivienne before motioning to Gethrael to come with her. Her lips were tight, and her energy seemed even more frantic than he remembered it. 

“... I sent word ahead to Leliana,” Cassandra said, coming up next to him and crossing her arms over her breastplate. “There are matters that need to be discussed.”

“Already?” Geth gave her a tired half-smile, “here I was hoping for dinner, first.” Really he’d been hoping it could wait until morning, Iron Bull had promised to show him some of the benefits of a proper bed once he was back in his cabin. 

“I do not think they will wait,” Cassandra said, as devoid of humour as usual. 

She was right. Gethrael was barely allowed to excuse himself to take a piss before he was herded to the room in the back of the Chantry, Josephine already babbling away. 

“... and this Orlesian merchant that is coming, you are sure she didn’t specify the types of suppliers with which she had influence? Have you verified the existence of her trading papers?”

Geth didn’t even know how to answer that, but she kept talking despite his lack of input. Cassandra, looking more frustrated than usual, pushed past him and opened the door to reveal Cullen once again leaning tiredly on the table. He might’ve not moved since they left, Gethrael remembered him in that exact position. 

“Herald,” Leliana said softly in greeting, “it is good to see you back.”

“Lavellan,” Cullen said, giving him a nod. The elf returned it a little awkwardly, thinking it could not possibly look the same when he did it. 

The four of them gathered around the table, and an air that was serious enough to quiet Josephine settled over them all. 

“So the Templars have abandoned their senses, as well as the capital,” Cullen said, finally breaking the silence. 

“Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember,” Cassandra said, and Gethrael wondered if he was imagining that she seemed worried. 

“True,” Leliana was scouring the map on the table with her gaze, not looking up at anyone as she spoke. “He has taken the Order somewhere - but to do what? My reports have been... very odd.” 

“But now we have the opening we need to approach the mages,” Josephine was twirling her quill excitedly. 

“You think a mage rebellion will be more organized? More stable? It could be ten times worse,” Cullen said, and Cassandra gave a ‘hm,’ of agreement. 

“The Templars don’t like that I’m a mage,” Gethrael said, and was surprised when they all instantly turned their gazes on him. “The mages do. Won’t that help?”

“A definite possibility,” Leliana said, eyes still fixed on the map as though it held answers and it was her fault for not seeing them. “You’ll be walking into danger regardless.”

It looked like Cullen was about to say something, but Josephine beat him to the punch. “We cannot discount the mages - they may be worth the risk.”

“They are powerful, Ambassador,” Cassandra leaned on the table in between them, looking almost as contemplative as Leliana. “But perhaps more desperate than you realize.”

“I’ve been in danger since I got here,” Gethrael looked at each of them; not sure what the problem was. “Don’t we need more mages, either way?”

Cullen sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his hand. “... we could use the Templars to weaken the Breach - but I’m frankly not certain we have enough influence to approach the Order safely.”

“And if some of the mages are responsible for what happened at Conclave,” Cassandra said. 

“The same could be said of the Templars,” Josephine said without missing a beat, and Gethrael was grateful for that. 

“True.”

“Harding and her scouts have found little of the Grey Wardens on the Coast,” Leliana started quickly, and Cullen rubbed at his forehead again. 

“Not this,” he muttered, “Leliana, the Wardens-“

“There is no harm in speaking with this Warden Blackwall on the way to Redcliffe,” the spymaster continued, talking over him. “We will need a location for a forwards camp, after all.”

“You want us _all_ to go straight into the battlegrounds?”

“If you are so concerned with the danger to the Herald,” Leliana’s tone was clipped, “you must see the wisdom in numbers. There is also a far greater chance for success in negotiations if we are close at hand.”

“The Herald doesn’t really know how to negotiate,” Gethrael said sheepishly, very much hoping that they were going to come with him. Leliana gave him a small, maybe-sympathetic smile. 

“The Herald has been doing a fine job,” Josephine said emphatically, “Gethrael - you’ve already won us several allies.”

“Yes, but,” Cullen looked between Geth and the Advisor, “I understand what he’s saying. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes; I’m no politician.” He sighed heavily again. “Perhaps it’s best we do go. I believe there was some mention of a Templar encampment near the Crossroads? I’d like to handle it personally.”

Thank the Creators. Val Royeaux had been more than enough, just the thought of it was enough to make Gethrael feel tired all over again. Cullen seemed to misinterpret his silence, as the next thing Geth knew, the Commander was giving him a bracing clasp on the shoulder. He wasn’t prepared for the firmness of it, or that it was one of the most awkward physical touches he’d ever received. 

“Miss Montilyet is quite right,” Cullen said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Those Blades of Hessarian are already proving to be useful contacts. They’ve greatly extended our reach due to your bravery on the Coast.”

“Brave?” Geth said with half a laugh. “I hardly did anything.” He really hadn’t - it’d been Cassandra and The Iron Bull, and he’d just got in the way. 

“... bravery is many things,” Leliana’s voice was both playful and cryptic. “But perhaps need not be involved with a delicate negotiation such as this.” She gave him a teasing smile, and he grinned back. 

“That’s a relief.”

After a few more minutes discussing logistics that Gethrael couldn’t really contribute to, they made their way out of the war room. Josephine was at the forefront, already hurrying to prepare for the arrival of more Orlesians, no doubt. Leliana hung back a little, gently catching his elbow. 

“Herald - I just wanted to let you know that my agents have made contact with Clan Lavellan,” she said, and he immediately relaxed. He didn’t know if that was due to concern about his Clan or just concern that Leliana was displeased. “They’ve reported that your Keeper is receptive and seems to believe we aren’t holding you prisoner.”

“Any longer,” Geth said with a grin, unable to resist. 

“... any longer,” Leliana conceded, retuning a small smile of her own. 

...

Since it’d started to snow at Haven, Gethrael hadn’t really been able to slip out of the walls and trek out into the surrounding forest to pray. Though it was not the same, he’d set up a small altar behind the cabin he slept in. 

He was used to silence, at least for these types of things, and with the sounds of the smithy clanging, the sparring yard and the chatter of all the _people_ here; it took him a long time to concentrate on his devotionals. 

_Blessed Sylaise, your fire fills the darkness. Your hearth warms the winter. Mar’ama aravel el shiremah._

He stared at the candle he’d taken from the Chantry, half-slumped in a pile of its own dripping tallow. He could hear the cadence of the Sisters reciting the Chant - as they seemed to do without end - somewhere in the background. It dropped a rock in his stomach. There was no way to escape it; the Maker, the Chant, Mother Giselle, ‘The Herald of Andraste’...

“What is the meaning of this?”

 _Ah, forgot about him._ Gethrael came out of his reverie to see Chancellor Roderick, his face reddening with anger. 

“I thought you’d recognize prayer,” the elf said, playing it off as a joke despite the rising dread in him. 

Roderick spluttered, as though he was too enraged to find words. “Prayer? This savage display? You dare call yourself Andraste’s Herald, and kneel in the dirt for your heathen gods?”

Gethrael rose to his feet and squared his jaw. Roderick was still taller than him, but he met the man’s gaze unflinchingly. “You should try it some time,” he said, tone deceptively mild. “Kneeling in the dirt, I mean. Maybe your Maker will finally hear you.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, heading towards the gates of Haven and the Chargers’ tents. Hopefully Iron Bull would be there, the Chancellor - or anyone, really - wouldn’t dare bother him with the Qunari around. 

_I never even called myself the Herald of Andraste._


End file.
